


out of the dead land

by tomorrowsrain



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Apocalypse, BAMF Klaus Hargreeves, BAMF Number Five | The Boy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Klaus Hargreeves, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Injury, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Post-Apocalypse, Protective Klaus Hargreeves, Sibling Bonding, Survival, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 47,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26462494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomorrowsrain/pseuds/tomorrowsrain
Summary: When attempting to time travel at thirteen, Five manages to land himself at the end of a different world than his own. Meanwhile, Klaus has been surviving alone, barely holding the grief and ghosts and monsters at bay. He didn't expect to be suddenly met with a thirteen-year-old version of the brother he buried years ago, but whatever, he's adaptable. And he's going to keep Five alive until he can get back to his own universe. Whatever it takes.(Or: Klaus and Five versus a zombie apocalypse.)
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy & Klaus Hargreeves
Comments: 203
Kudos: 683





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello new fandom! I am nervous, as always, posting my first story in a new space but please accept this offering. It's the result of me falling down the rabbit hole of The Umbrella Academy and finishing The Last of Us 2 around the same time. I've also read several wonderful Klaus and Five in the apocalypse fics and wanted to try my hand at my own. This is pretty much set in the world of The Last of Us in terms of what caused the outbreak and the nature of the zombies, but you don't need to know anything about The Last of Us to read it, I promise. It's just always been one of my favorite takes on zombies and I wanted to play around with it. Plus I honestly really wanted to explore Five versus another kind of apocalypse, in addition to what we see in the show. 
> 
> Anyway, the chapter count is currently an estimate, I'm not sure how long this will be yet so please bear with me (and hopefully enjoy the journey!) Title and opening quote are from T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land. 
> 
> Comments are always deeply appreciated. <3

_April is the cruellest month, breeding_

_Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing_

_Memory and desire, stirring_

_Dull roots with spring rain._

**The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot**

  
  


_ _ 

  
  


Klaus _really_ needs to stop coming back here. It’s sentimental and _foolish,_ and even though dying isn’t permanent for him it still hurts like a bitch every time. Somewhere, in hopefully a grave, he can picture Daddy Dearest scoffing at him, the Great Disappointment (at least he was great at _something,_ right?). And to be honest pissing off Reginald Hargreeves might be half the reason he makes this trip every spring, beyond standing in front of the sprouting ruins of the old mansion to talk to ghosts he can’t conjure. 

Anyway, pointless philosophical reasons aside, he is indeed Back Here once again. The city has crumbled to ruin in the last five and half years—already badly damaged from the Outbreak—and nature has gleefully begun to reclaim its territory. The broken roads have been nearly subsumed by waist high grass, vines trail artfully down cracked concrete and brick walls, and a few car husks sprout seeds like they’re mutating into new and terrifying creatures. It’s … beautiful, honestly. If it weren’t for the occasional bodies he still sees scattered around, he could almost forget the violence that happened here. 

And that all those decaying buildings are absolutely _littered_ with Infected. He keeps an idle ear out for them as he walks, one hand on the rifle slung over his shoulder. But they hate sunlight and nature and most Nice Things so they’ll probably stay down in the damp dark where they can shamble and moan and roar to their non-existent hearts’ content. 

(And soak up the spores he knows also still linger and then probably _also_ mutate into new and terrifying creatures just like the cars, but that’s honestly neither here nor there. They can’t kill him, anyway.) 

He hums to himself as he climbs over a line of rusted cars blocking the road, lamenting the loss of his cassette player last week. (A stupid move, accidentally dropping it in a creek. If any of his siblings were around to haunt him, they would have laughed their asses off.) Even having one headphone in made everything more bearable. Sometimes, he can’t tell the difference between the howls of the ghosts and the creaking roars of the Infected, but in this twisted world the ghosts are definitely quieter, most days. A small, teensy blessing. But the music helped with both. He’ll have to try to scavenge up a new one soon, in a city not as picked over as his good old hometown has been. 

Two more turns and then he’s on the street to the Academy. He pauses when he spots a few clusters of flowers growing out of the floor of a ruined shop. After a quick check to ensure they’re not poisonous (though maybe poison would have been more fitting for this family, _ha),_ he plucks a handful and continues on his way. The mansion is the same as always, just with a few more vines. The outer shell is remarkably still standing, even if everything inside is an empty husk of rotted wood and shattered mortar, dotted with the occasional “priceless” heirloom that no one wants or needs now that currency has become obsolete. He picks his way carefully through the rubble, eyes on the gradually-widening cracks in what’s left of the ceiling. He’s had buildings come down on top of him before and it sits at the number 3 spot on his list of Top Ten Worst Ways to Die, right up there with 4) getting limbs torn off, 5) falling from great heights, and 6) choking on your own blood. 

He’d rather not discuss Number 1 and 2, thanks for understanding, but drowning is actually fairly peaceful and strangulation is pretty fun right up until the end when your instincts kick into overdrive. 

Today, though, he makes it to the courtyard unscathed. Hooray. 

The headstones are makeshift, just rocks he was able to stack together and little mementos on top. A necklace for Mom; Pogo’s glasses, cracked and broken; a tattered octopus plushie he got Ben as a prank gift one year; and Five’s favorite sci-fi novel, the pages torn and shriveled and molding now. He couldn’t find Daddy Dearest’s body, so he’s erected nothing for him because good riddance, really. 

Luther was on the moon when everything went to shit and Klaus has no idea if he ever came back down, or where he might be if he did. Allison was in LA and he hasn’t been brave enough to leave the familiar territory of the East Coast so he has no idea if she’s alive but chances are slim. He hasn't been able to bring himself to make headstones for either of them, though. (Give him one last sliver of hope, okay?) Diego and Vanya are buried ( _cracking glass, shrieking steel, an explosion that blows out his eardrums and no no no no)_ somewhere else, but he sunk one of Diego’s knives into the dirt last year and rested a little violin keychain he found at the base of it. He’s never been able to conjure them, no matter how hard he tries, but he thinks they would be happy here, back with the rest of the family. Even if they all hated this place. 

He puts a flower in front of each headstone. “Hi,” he says once the task is done, sitting cross-legged in the dirt and shrugging off his rifle and pack. “Me again.” 

(Like anyone else comes to visit.)

It’s quiet, silent—the only silence he’s ever hated. 

“Not much to catch you all up on. It’s been a pretty boring year, all things considered. I only died five times, which is a new personal record so yay for me, right?” He waves his hands, then drops them back to his knees. “I traveled a bit. Went further south than I ever have before. Don’t know what I was expecting to find, it's as ruined there as it is everywhere else. I _did_ find some kind of religious cult, though, so that was fun. Well, they tried to eat me, which was less fun but come on, we all know that’s a pretty standard risk, these days.” He laughs quietly to himself. Draws a random pattern in the dirt by his left knee. 

“I miss you,” he admits, as though he doesn’t think variations of those words every damn day. “I miss you all. The world isn’t _really_ dead, I know, and honestly it’s always been absolutely _overflowing_ with dead people so not much has changed, but it feels … emptier, without you here.” He sighs. “You know that, though.” 

There’s more he wants to say, there’s always more, but hilariously for someone who used to never shut up, he’s not much of a talker now. It’s weird, talking when there aren’t ghosts around to listen to him and talk back. (Ones that he _wants_ the company of, anyway. The shrieking, angry ones are terrible conversationalists and thus not worth his time.) It makes him feel lonely in a way he doesn’t like. 

So instead he sighs again and flops back into the dirt, staring up at the cloudy spring sky. It’s probably going to rain soon. It always rains annoying amounts in April. 

(At least, he thinks it’s currently April.) 

“Maybe I’ll go west,” he says like he does every year. “See if somewhere out there Allison’s still kicking, you know? Or I could go to the desert, I bet Infected _hate_ the desert. I could find a ranch somewhere in Arizona, or something. That would be nice, right?” 

It will still probably never happen. He’s a sentimental _fool_ and he’s never going to be able to leave them behind, even if they’ve been dead for over five years. His relationship with death (and god, the little brat) has never been _conventional._ Death doesn’t mean Letting Go or Moving On or other such bullshit. Even if they’re not haunting him, even if he reaches and reaches and _reaches_ into the void and can find no trace of them, he can still _feel_ them, in a strange way. The lingering, fading echoes of them that permeate what’s left of this place. 

He doesn’t want to leave until those are completely gone. 

It’s going to be dark in a few hours, though, and he can’t camp here. 

“Right,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m going to pop off, but I’ll be back tomorrow to say goodbye.” 

He never stays in the city long. Too many Infected, too few supplies, too many ghosts. It’s better out in the wilds. 

He’s in the middle of shouldering his pack when he hears it: a _voice._ A _familiar voice_ , yelling for Vanya and Ben. It sounds like it’s coming from out front, but that’s impossible. Unless … has Five’s ghost somehow clawed its way back from wherever his spirit disappeared to at the start of the Outbreak? But this sounds nothing like the Five he knows. Far too young for the adult Five was when he died. 

_I have finally lost the last of my marbles,_ he thinks with a hysterical giggle bubbling in his throat. He’s pretty amazed he held on this long, someone should give him a medal. Or a new cassette player. 

The voice keeps talking, even after he shakes his head in an attempt to clear it. Whelp, time to see if visual hallucinations are going to come with auditory ones. He shrugs his pack on the rest of the way and picks up his rifle, just in case, then carefully weaves his way back to the front entrance. 

Only to stop cold a few feet from the remains of the door. Because visible through the gap, on his knees in the dirt and gasping for air, is Five. 

_So yes to the visual hallucinations,_ Klaus thinks, once again amazed this hasn’t happened earlier. Well, never outside of dreams. He’s seen them all in his nightmares more times than he can count. Never like this, though. Because this is Five from _decades_ ago, so painfully young and scrawny and _small_. Still clad in that ridiculous school uniform the Overlord made them wear—jacket almost baggy on his hunched, heaving shoulders. 

_Why this?_ He asks his mess of a brain or maybe god or the universe or whatever other assholes might be listening. Why little Number Five _now_ of all times? He’d take the Infected and the awful, furious ghosts over a miniaturized, scared, weeping image of the brother whose broken body he buried with shaking hands in a too-shallow grave. 

The answer is, of course, resounding silence so fuck everything, including his brain. 

He tries pinching himself, but the hallucination is stubborn. He slaps himself across the face next and the sound of skin hitting skin startles Five, has his head jerking up. But he doesn’t disappear, Klaus is just now treated to the sight of his big, wet eyes and wan, dirt-smeared face. God, were they all really that _young_ once? 

“Hi,” he says, just for the hell of it, and watches as Five surges to his feet and scrambles backwards, black school shoes kicking up dust and gaze darting wildly for a weapon. Shockingly, he doesn’t jump, though maybe that’s the fault of Klaus’s brain. 

“Who are you?” Five croaks, voice so much higher than Klaus remembers it being. Pre-pubescent and a little squeaky in Five’s distress. 

Klaus frowns. “What, you don’t recognize me?” Because that’s kind of rude, brain. Coming up with this elaborate hallucination and then giving it _memory loss?_

Five’s shoulders are stiff and he’s got his hands braced carefully at his sides, settling into a fighting stance Klaus recognizes from their training days. “Should I?” he asks, his still wobbly voice undercutting any air of intimidation he might be trying to project. 

He looks seconds away from falling apart again. Klaus wants to hug him. Can you hug a hallucination? 

“I’m wounded, Fivey,” he whines instead, going for the tone that always used to piss Five off—earn Klaus an exasperated but affectionate eye roll. “I know the last couple years haven’t exactly been _great,_ but surely I haven’t changed so much that you don’t recognize your own _brother._ ” 

He doesn’t even look _that_ different from when him and Five last saw each other before … well Before. His hair is longer, to his shoulders now, and he’s taken to tying it up in a bun so it stays out of the way. He’s lost weight, definitely—that was unavoidable—and tanned quite a bit. His facial hair’s a little more unkempt but he actually _does_ maintain it as best he can because long beards are just a terrible hassle in an apocalypse, _everything_ gets stuck in them. And there is a _tragic_ lack of good makeup available now so he’s gone without for the last several years. But beyond that, he’s pretty sure he looks the same. 

Five, child-body or not, should recognize him. Especially since _his own brain is making this up._ Though, thinking about it, his brain has never been kind to him _or_ predictable in any way. 

A choked sound draws his attention back to Five, whose eyes have blown even wider than before. “ _Brother?”_ he squeaks. “W-what?” 

And then his gaze drifts down to Klaus’s arm and the faded, but unmistakable tattoo above his wrist. Somehow, his dirty face pales another two shades and he takes a staggering step back. He squints at Klaus and slowly recognition begins to dawn. “K- _Klaus?_ ” 

Klaus claps his hands together. “Oh good, he _does,_ remember! Now, if you don’t mind, I have other things I need to be doing besides entertaining my brain’s latest horrible flight of fancy so … begone.” 

A dramatic wave. Nothing happens. Tiny Five continues to gawk up at him like _he’s_ the one seeing a ghost. “Flight of fancy?” he asks, half-dazed.

“Hallucination? Fever dream? Take your pick, mon frere _."_

Five’s face scrunches up. It’s better than when he was sobbing, at least. “I’m not a hallucination.” 

“That’s _exactly_ what a hallucination would say,” Klaus points out. “And what else could you be? Five is dead, buried, gone from this awful, mortal coil. Not to mention you’re … about twenty years too young. So, all evidence—you like evidence, I remember that—points to my _lovely_ brain finally going around the final bend.” 

Five sways like he’s been punched. “Dead?” he hiccups. “I’m … I’m _dead?_ ” 

“Well—” 

“This isn’t right,” Five cuts Klaus off, spinning in a frantic circle. “No, this can’t be right. I have to get back.” And _now_ his hands spark and electricity whirs as Five tries to summon his power. But … nothing happens. The air around his clenched fists distorts in a brief burst of familiar blue and then fizzles out. “No!” Five yells and tries again, only to get the same result. 

It’s then that Klaus finally begins to entertain the idea that this might _not_ be a hallucination. Because, thinking about it more, is this _really_ what his fucked up disaster of a brain would conjure? A distraught Five here to blame him for all of his failures? Sure. Definitely. He’s had shattered, bloody specters of all his siblings torment him. But one who is now crashing back to his knees and gasping “why won’t it work?” in between frantic inhales? A little out of left field. 

And … well, shit Five _was_ always talking about the possibility of time travel. He never actually _attempted_ it—too afraid of the potential risks and talked down incessantly by Vanya and Ben until he let some of the obsession die. (And then _he_ died, which … tragically funny, right?) But what about a _different_ Five? Because Klaus’s power has taught him that there is so much more to existence than humans can hope to comprehend. There is a realm layered on top of their own where the dead lurk and linger, clinging to whatever tattered remnants of life they can. And there is a realm beyond _that_ where a little girl in a colorless forest stares at him with furious, soulless eyes and banishes him for the hundredth, _thousandth_ time. So who’s to say there aren’t _other universes?_ One where Klaus is completely ordinary. One where he _can_ die and his powers did him in long before he hit thirty. One where the world ended with a different kind of bang. One where it didn’t end at all. 

And one where little Number Five tried to time travel. 

Oh _christ._

Klaus sways, unsure of what to make of this revelation. Of this suddenly _real_ version of his brother in front of him, now curled in on himself with his face buried in his bony knees. This _child,_ so much younger than he remembers Five ever being. His clearest memory of Five is at the end—of coming too late too late _always too late_ and finding Five in a crumbling house with his arm torn open and fever already descending. 

Of the blood in Five’s smile when he—

 _Stop it,_ he orders his runaway brain. _Not now._

Not when there is a Five in front of him. Not _his_ Five, sure, but still _Five._ A solid and _real_ Five, whom he can definitely hug. 

He staggers the last few steps needed to cross the cracked threshold of the mansion’s entrance and then drops to his knees beside Five and drags him into his arms. 

Five makes a shocked, choking noise and fights him, trying to wriggle away. It might be instinct, because if Five’s upbringing was anything like Klaus’s then this is probably the first hug of his young life. So Klaus only tightens his grip, eyes tear-blurred, and after a moment, Five’s struggles cease and he sags against Klaus’s chest, shaking again. He feels so tiny and breakable, so painfully _frail,_ and in the back of Klaus’s mind a realization pings: if Five can’t get back, then Klaus is going to be responsible for a _child_ in the middle of this zombie-infested hellscape. Fuck. He can barely be considered _sane_ on a good day, let alone a _responsible adult…._

Five starts crying again, letting out small, panicked breaths, and a surge of protectiveness drowns out all of Klaus’s fears. He’ll _learn_ how to be responsible, goddamnit, because there is no way he’s letting his baby brother ( _holy shit he has a baby brother_ ) die out here. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, rocking Five back and forth. “It’s gonna be okay, Fivey. I’m sorry I said you were a hallucination.” 

Five recovers enough to hiccup back, “It’s okay … it’s … understandable, considering … the circumstances.” 

Klaus laughs wetly and presses his chin to the top of Five’s head. “Yeah, you have _no_ idea.”

He’s not sure how long they sit there, but eventually Five worms out of his grip again and tries to collect himself. Klaus watches with a mixture of grief and amusement as a familiar mask falls over Five’s face, tucking the fear away behind a veneer of arrogant confidence. 

“Right,” Five says, straightening his dirty uniform jacket. “My powers don’t seem to be working.” His voice wavers slightly before steadying again. “So it looks like I’m stuck here for the time being.” 

Klaus hums in agreement. Five continues. “This is obviously the future.” He gestures to Klaus. “But how many years, exactly? What’s the date?” 

“I don’t know the _exact_ date, because we don’t really have calendars anymore, but it’s spring, 2019. Based on the weather patterns I’d say April, but that’s just semantics.” 

“April 2019,” Five repeats with a jerky nod of his head. “So … seventeen years.” 

Which means this Five is definitely thirteen. Wow. 

And there’s something he’s missing. 

Klaus clears his throat. “There’s something you’re missing, though.” 

Five frowns at him, brow furrowed skeptically. Ah yes, always the genius, the one ten, fifteen, twenty steps in front of everyone else. In any other circumstance, Klaus would _relish_ having one up on him. But knowing what this will do, he keeps his voice gentle as he says, “this is _a_ future, yes. But it’s not _your_ future, Five.” 

Five’s eyes blow wide. “What? Of course it’s my—” 

“My Five never tried to time travel,” Klaus interjects and watches the metaphorical rug get yanked right out from under Five’s feet. 

“What … so you’re saying…” That big brain whirs. Klaus can practically see the gears turning faster than he can ever hope to keep up with. “I’ve traveled into the future of a parallel universe,” Five concludes in a shocked murmur. 

Klaus snaps his fingers. “Bingo.” 

Five collapses back into the dirt. “Shit.” 

“I mean, I guess the upside here is that you’re even _more_ powerful than anyone thought,” Klaus says a little frantically, because Five looks like he might start crying again. “Not only can you time travel, you can jump whole _universes._ Very impressive, Five-0.” 

Five just shakes his head. “And get stuck in them. Dad was right, I never should have tried this.” 

“No, probably not,” Klaus agrees, reaching out to pat his shoulder. Five flinches, but that’s okay. They’ll get there with the whole Human Touch Can Be Good thing, even though Klaus is very rusty with human contact himself. “But there’s no use beating yourself up about it, is there? I’m sure you’ll figure out how to get back, eventually, just gotta use that massive brain of yours. In the meantime, we’ll stick together, yeah? I’ll watch out for you, baby brother.” 

Five glares at him, clearly offended at the suggestion that he needs looking after. But then he seems to remember that he _is_ in the middle of an unfamiliar world and he snaps his mouth closed without releasing whatever barb Klaus is sure was about to get fired at him. 

“Right,” he says again and takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I guess you’ll have to get me up to speed.” 

Shit. Yeah. Oh that’s gonna take awhile. And potentially blow Five’s poor mind all over again. 

“One thing at a time, mi hermano,” he says. “And the _first_ thing is to get you out of that god-awful uniform. It’s definitely not appropriate gear for the … _current_ times.” It’ll be easier to focus on practical needs first. Klaus can do practical needs. 

Five blinks down at his now filthy uniform and then at the ruined city around them. “No,” he says quietly. “I guess not.” 

Klaus hauls himself to his feet and dusts off his ragged jeans. He lets Five stand on his own, because he suspects that offering too much help too quickly will only make Five snappish. _That_ trait never changed, even as his Five grew into a slightly-better adjusted adult. 

“There’s a department store a few blocks from here that I don’t think has been entirely picked over. Follow me, and stick close.” 

Five nods, picking up on the seriousness in Klaus’s tone. 

They start walking. 

_ _ 

Five is quiet most of the way to the department store, occupied with taking in his surroundings. He stares at the damaged buildings, the overgrown streets, the mangled and long decomposed bodies still lying here and there. And then freezes when they pass a parking garage and the unmistakable roar of Infected rises from its depths. 

“What was _that?_ ” 

Klaus grabs his wrist, absorbing his answering flinch, and pulls him forward. “I’ll explain in a minute, but it’s something Very Bad and we need to keep moving.” 

Mercifully, Five follows him without complaint. Klaus tries to figure out how to explain _zombies_ and the Outbreak and the _end of fucking civilization._ This isn’t a situation he ever thought he’d be in. It’s probably best to just be direct. The Five he knows (knew) always favored facts and data and cold, hard truths instead of being coddled, even at the tender age of thirteen. Besides, he’s going to come up against evidence very, _very_ soon. 

Klaus stops outside of Gimbel Brothers. He remembers it being a massive store, with an equally massive kid’s section, and it’s still standing—only several letters from the red sign missing. But intact + dark + big spaces means it’s probably crawling with Infected so this is going to be an _adventure._ He’s tempted to try to make Five stay outside, but he doubts that will fly. 

“Okay,” he says, stopping by the remains of a car and perching himself on the rusty hood. Five peers at him intently. “As you can tell, everything has gone _very_ much to shit.” He waves at the rubble around them. 

“I had noticed that, yeah,” Five says, the sarcastic little shit. 

(Christ, Klaus has _missed him._ ) 

“Any guesses as to how that happened?” 

He knows he’s stalling but can you blame him? Who wants to explain the Outbreak and the following death and chaos and horror and monsters to a child, even if that child has never been a normal one and has been dealing with various horrors all his life. This is _different._ There’s no preparing for this. No taking something like this completely in stride. Klaus _lived through it_ and there are still days when the reality of it cuts him off at the knees and leaves him hobbled and breathless and incredulous. 

“Klaus,” Five says impatiently. 

Klaus sighs. “Zombies,” he declares with as much cheer as he can muster. “It was zombies. Who would have thought, huh? The old man _definitely_ didn’t predict this, let me tell you.” 

Five gapes at him. “ _Zombies?_ ” 

The expression on his face is oh so familiar. The _be serious, Klaus_ look he’s gotten from every single family member at numerous points in his life, except maybe Mom. 

He ignores it and barrels on. “Well not _traditional_ zombies. Not Walking Dead or Resident Evil zombies, these aren’t _literally_ the undead, but they’re close enough. Still disgusting, still can infect people, and still will _absolutely_ rip you to shreds so we need to proceed with caution, okay?” 

“Zombies,” Five repeats, shaking his head. “You … how?” 

Klaus shrugs. “I’m a bit fuzzy on the details, it was chaotic, but apparently a fungus managed to mutate to the point of being able to take over a human host and accidentally got released from a lab on an unwitting population and _then_ became airborne and _bam!_ End of the world as we know it.” 

“Cordyceps,” Five says because of course he would know. “Fuck.” 

“Language,” Klaus chides, just for the scowl Five shoots him. If Five stays annoyed with him, that might stave off another breakdown for a bit. “But yes, that’s the one.” 

Five blows out a breath. So far he seems to be holding together, but he hasn’t actually _seen_ an Infected yet. 

“Now, they like dark, damp places because fungus, so….” Klaus waves at the department store and Five’s jaw tightens a fraction. “Normally I try to avoid going into too many buildings but sometimes needs must. _Therefore,_ I want you to continue to stick close, _very_ close, and do _everything_ I tell you to. Actually, maybe this is a bad idea. You can just wait out here—” 

“No,” Five says predictably. Stubborn idiot. “I have to learn sometime, right? Might as well throw myself off the deep end.” 

Well, sink or swim _was_ the method hammered into them by Dear Old Dad so Klaus isn’t surprised Five wants to take this approach. He just hopes he’s not about to get his baby brother killed less than two hours after reuniting (or is it meeting for the first time?) with him. 

“Fine,” he says, knowing he’s not going to win this fight, even when Five is tiny and easily manhandled. He reaches for the holster strapped to his leg and pulls out a pistol, handing it to Five. He’s not sure how well Five knows how to use it, but it’s better than nothing. “Aim for the head, but conserve your ammo. It’s scarce, these days. If it goes down, leave it but don’t go near it. Make as little noise as possible and follow my lead.” 

Five blinks at him for a moment, probably unused to Competent, Serious Adult Klaus. Which, understandable, this is weird for him too. But then Five nods, expression solemn and determined. Thank heaven his pragmatism sometimes outweighs his arrogance. If it was Luther here, they’d be screwed. And Diego—god Klaus loves him and misses him every day, but there were some _close_ calls early on before he learned to slow down, learned what was beyond his capabilities no matter how fast or strong or skilled he became. 

(And it still wasn’t enough, he still ended up—)

“Okay,” Five says. “Stay quiet, follow your lead, only shoot if necessary.” 

“Got it in one.” Klaus claps him on the shoulder and unholsters his second pistol. It’ll be better in close quarters than the rifle. “You’ll do great.” 

And with that, they head into the department store. The air smells damp and musty, thick with rot and decay, but no spores. (Fuck, they also need to make sure they get Five a mask.) Sure enough, Klaus hears the first scream of an Infected two steps in. Luckily, it sounds far away—near the back of the store or maybe even the level below them. Five freezes briefly at the chilling, utterly inhuman sound, but recovers fast. 

“Kid’s section is that way,” he whispers, pointing to a sign with an arrow to their left. 

_Please be near the front,_ Klaus thinks as they head that way, carefully maneuvering between racks of frayed, moth-eaten clothing. _Please be near the front._

Lady Luck must be with them today because it _is_ very close to the front and there are rows and rows of clothing, which means that _hopefully_ some of it is still in decent condition. 

“Okay,” Klaus murmurs and points to a far wall where various backpacks are hanging. “Get the biggest one you can find, I’ll be right behind you.” 

Another shriek pierces the air. Five jolts, breath quickening, but presses forward. Klaus is so proud of him. 

After locating the backpack, they descended upon the clothing racks. 

“Go for sturdy clothing,” Klaus instructs in a rasping whisper. “As durable as you can find. Jeans, shirts with thick material. Some long sleeves but mostly t-shirts, we’re heading into summer. Still, grab a jacket. And a scarf if you see one. Lots of underwear and lots of socks. We’ll find shoes later.”

“Got it,” Five whispers back. 

They split up to check the racks faster, though Klaus still keeps a watchful eye on Five. This feels utterly surreal. He’s going shopping with a thirteen-year-old version of his brother from a parallel universe in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, when is the fucking cosmos going to run out of curveballs? 

_Focus,_ he reminds himself. The chiding voice in his head sounds like Ben. 

He thumbs through the racks, casting aside item after item of ruined clothing. But he hits paydirt on rack four (ha) where he finds two good quality t-shirts that look Five’s size. One has a cartoon T-Rex on the front, which means it’s an automatic acquisition. He cannot _wait_ to see Five wear this. He tucks them under his arm and keeps going, hyper aware of the now steady guttural moans and weeping that are providing terrifying background music to their expedition. He hates Runners the most because they still sound so awfully _human,_ barely any different from the ghosts that have haunted him for so long. 

(He read somewhere that the host is still conscious in the early stages of infection and promptly tried to forget because there are some horrors just too grotesque and fucked up to comprehend while maintaining any shred of your sanity.)

He locates another shirt and a waterproof jacket and decides that’s a good enough haul. They’ll still need room in Five’s pack for food, weapons, and other supplies. 

“How we doing, Five-0?” he asks once he’s crept back to Five’s side. 

Five’s hands are shaking and his eyes are huge but his voice is mostly steady when he replies, “I found three shirts, a scarf, two pairs of jeans, two packets of underwear and two packets of socks.” 

“Good work,” Klaus praises and ignores the suspicious frown that flickers across Five’s mouth because positive reinforcement is probably also something he’s never gotten in his life. “Now we just need shoes.” 

“I think they’re back there,” Five whispers and points, unfortunately, towards the far end of the store. Where the noises are coming from. 

Fear must make it onto Klaus’s face because Five hunches in on himself. “Do I really need them?” 

“Yeah,” Klaus says, cursing Lady Luck for promptly abandoning them again. She’s always so fickle. “Those school shoes won’t last a week, trust me. We’re just gonna … take this slow.” 

A fresh wail, as if in answer. Five winces at the piercing sound. Klaus steadies himself. Reminds the fear still clawing up his throat that he’s done this _dozens_ of times now—

(But never with a very vulnerable kid in tow.)

—and it’s gonna be absolutely fine. 

“Rules from before apply,” he says. “And stay behind me. Keep your eyes on where you step.” 

Five nods. They inch their way forward, carefully avoiding as much broken glass and debris as they can. They’re nearly to the shoe section when Klaus gets his first look at them. Six, that he can count. All Runners. If he was on his own, he would consider killing them, putting them out of their misery, but he’s not going to risk that with Five here. Most of them are standing still, shaking and moaning, while a few seem agitated, staggering around and screeching. 

He sees Five spot them too. Sees the naked shock in response to their mangled, bloodstained faces, white eyes, and the fungal growth that has begun to warp and twist their human features into something unrecognizable. Five, at thirteen, has probably been on several missions and fought plenty of dangerous enemies, but only ever human ones. 

“Stay down,” Klaus hisses to him and watches him snap back into Mission Mode, face going blank. 

Klaus refuses to be grateful to their asshole of a father for anything, but his stupid training is definitely coming in handy right now. 

They give the Runners a wide berth, ducking behind racks to stay out of sight. It isn’t until they make it to the shoes that Klaus realizes he’s been holding his breath. He exhales, stuttering, and turns down the kid’s aisle. 

“Okay, we’re looking for boots preferably, or some sturdy sneakers.” 

Five nods and they start scanning. Five knows his own size better than Klaus so Klaus mostly keeps a wary eye on the Runners while Five searches. So far they haven’t been noticed, but come on, Lady Luck. Come _on._

It turns out she hates him (a running theme) because suddenly several things happen at once: 

“I think I found some,” Five says and lifts the shoes from the shelf—

—but accidentally knocks a _separate_ box off—

—which falls to the floor with what feels like a deafening _thud_ —

—and causes three nearby Runners to jerk in their direction.

“ _RUN!”_ Klaus screams as the Runners shriek and the _other_ Runners quickly join in and the roaring rapidly reaches a terrible crescendo, echoing off the cavernous walls of the department store. “ _RUN RUN RUN!”_

Five throws himself into a dead sprint, still clutching the shoes to his chest. Klaus follows close behind him, keeping himself between Five and the Runners as they careen through the store towards the exit. He throws several racks to the ground and is rewarded by the sound of a few of the Runners tripping over them. They’re _fast,_ though, Klaus always forgets how fucking _fast_ they are. But the shattered front windows are getting closer and closer, light spilling in. 

Come on, come on, _come on…_

Five makes it, scrambling through the open window to the street beyond. Klaus feels bloody, sharp fingers graze his back and slams the butt of his rifle into one of the Runners’ stomachs, slowing it. That gives him enough leeway to make it outside where Five is staggering back to his feet, gasping for air. Klaus grabs his arm and tugs him along. 

“Don’t stop,” he pants. “Can’t stop yet.” 

They keep running, turning on to a different street. The howls grow more distant and after another two blocks, Klaus pulls Five down behind an abandoned truck. Mercifully, Runners aren’t very smart and they should give up pretty quickly if they can no longer see their prey. He can feel Five trembling against him, from fear or adrenaline or a combination of the two. He’s managed to hang onto the damn shoes. 

Klaus is so, so proud of him. 

“Okay,” he says, when everything is quiet again. “I think we’re good.” 

“I’m sorry,” Five wheezes, and it’s a testament to how rattled he is that he’s apologizing so easily. “Back there, I messed up, I’m sorry—”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It happens to all of us, baby brother. I’ll tell you all about the _incredible_ and _breathtakingly_ stupid mistakes I’ve made in the last five years, don’t worry. And before that. But for now...” he glances up at the ominous clouds above them and, as if on cue, feels the first drops of rain hit his face. “We should get somewhere safe.” 

_ _ 

He guides Five at a jog to a neighborhood a few blocks away that he remembers being pretty much clear of Infected. The rain turns into a downpour as they huddle under the roof of an old theater. Klaus fishes his crowbar out of his pack and pries the door open, slipping inside to check for Infected. It’s blissfully quiet so he beckons Five into the lobby and bars the door behind them. 

“Okay, we’ll be fine here for the night,” he declares with what he hopes is an encouraging smile but probably looks more like a grimace. Five definitely doesn’t seem encouraged. Klaus thinks they might be barreling right towards that second breakdown. 

_Give him something to do,_ insists Vanya. 

“How about you go get changed?” Klaus suggests, not wanting to order Five around now that they’re out of immediate danger. He’s _not_ going to become Reginald Hargreeves, thank you _very_ much. “I’ll work on dinner.” 

Five nods mutely and shuffles off in the direction of the bathrooms. Klaus locates a bucket in the janitor’s closet and heads back outside to collect rainwater for them to wash up with. Then he unpacks his camp stove, pot, and two cans of soup. He’s running low on fuel and he mentally adds that to the scavenging list that he always keeps in the back of his head. They’ll need to stock up on more food, too, now that there’s two of them. A gun for Five, though he’s fine to use the spare for now. First Aid supplies, another flashlight, a knife for Five, a mask for Five … shit it’s a long list. 

One thing at a time. 

Five shuffles back into view, now dressed in a black shirt (disappointing, but the T-Rex one will happen eventually), jeans, and the waterproof jacket. “The boots fit,” he says flatly as he sets his backpack next to Klaus’s. It’s only now, in the light and with the chaos over, that Klaus realizes it’s pastel pink. 

“Excellent choice,” he says sincerely. “Very fashionable.” 

Five frowns at him for a moment, as if he’s trying to determine whether Klaus is making fun of him or not. Klaus realizes, suddenly, that there is probably a _lot_ Five is going to learn about him. Definitely several key things he wouldn’t have known at thirteen, especially if he was as wrapped up in himself and the development of his powers as Klaus’s Five was in those days. 

This will be … interesting. 

Five’s features smooth back out. “Thanks, it was the biggest one they had,” he says and takes a seat on the floor near the camp stove. Klaus checks on the soup. A few more minutes. 

“You can wash up over there, if you want.” He points to the bucket where he also laid out a cloth. 

Five nods and stands again. He cleans his face and hands with the rag, then returns to his previous seat, jaw working. 

“Is the me in this universe really dead?” He finally blurts out. 

Klaus winces. 

_Nice going,_ his Five says, all biting sarcasm. 

“Yes,” he says, because there is no point in lying, especially to Five. “At the start of this mess.” 

Five absorbs this. “And the others?” 

“Ben, Mom, and Pogo at the start too,” Klaus sighs. “Diego and Vanya … last year.” 

“Luther?” 

“On the moon. I have no idea if he made it back down or just decided to stay up there.” 

Five’s eyebrows jump for his hairline. “The moon?” 

“Long story.” 

Another nod. “And Allison?” 

“She was in LA, so I have no idea. She could be alive.” 

“But the chances?” Five presses predictably. 

“Slim,” Klaus admits and watches the shudder pass through Five’s body. Watches his fingernails scrap against the fabric of his jeans as he clenches his hands into fists and wishes there was more he could do to comfort him. 

_They’re not yours, though,_ probably wouldn’t help. While _y_ _ou’ll go home_ is uncertain and trite. So he says nothing as Five bows his head and curls in on himself like a tiny, sad pillbug. 

“Okay,” Five says after a few breaths of pained silence. His voice is a little wet, but Klaus ignores that. The kid is owed a few tears. “So … it’s just you?” He looks up, horror creeping onto his face. “You’re out here alone?” 

“I was,” Klaus says with a dismissive shrug, trying to downplay the crushing weight of the last year. The grief that still threatens to suffocate him every day. “But not anymore.” 

He spoons the soup into two mugs and passes one to Five, who takes it with a trembling hand. 

“No,” Five whispers, staring into his mug like the contents might contain the secrets of the universe. When he looks back up again, his too-young face is still drawn and pale and scared, but his eyes burn with the same fire Klaus’s Five used to hold. “You’re not.” 

Outside, the rain continues to fall, soaking the ruins of the city, coaxing the plants to grow taller—reclaim more ground. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, more to come soon! Also, I'm not super active over there, but please feel free to follow me on tumblr @wobblyspelling.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FOLKS, thank you so much for the response on the first chapter and all your lovely comments! I'm sorry I'm so terrible at replying, but I cherish each one and they definitely motivated me to write this chapter. It's a little bit slower, sorry, but I wanted to take time to establish the world and the characters more. Also GOD it's really hard to write actual kid Five, we get so few glimpses of him in canon. Hopefully he's believable here *crosses fingers.* 
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy the chapter and more to come soon! Opening quote is once again from The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot.

_What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow_

_Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,_

_You cannot say, or guess, for you know only_

_A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,_

_And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,_

_And the dry stone no sound of water._

  
  


_ _ 

Five half expects to wake up in his bedroom and discover that the last twenty-four hours have been a strange dream. Instead, there's a hard floor beneath him, making his back ache, and an adult Klaus crouched over him, gently shaking his shoulder. Right. Okay. He actually time traveled. He ran out of the house in the middle of dinner and launched himself into an alternate universe where he’s _dead_ and the world has been overrun with monsters. 

He shivers at the memory of the creatures in the department store—their humanity consumed by twisting fungal growth. He’s going to hear their screams in his nightmares, he’s sure. 

And then there is Klaus, who looks nothing like the boy Five knows, except for his piercing eyes. _His_ Klaus is equal turns brash and timid—a cocky, carefree mask to hide a cracked foundation. This Klaus projects quiet confidence, from the lithe grace of his movements to the ease with which he handles the various weapons he carries. But his face has been sharpened by grief and probably starvation and years of hard survival. He looks … haunted. In a way that Five’s Klaus doesn’t yet. 

But will he? 

“Hey, Fivey,” Klaus says, and at least the dumb nicknames haven’t changed. Five is grateful, but he’s not about to tell Klaus that. “Time to get up. We should get moving.”

Five sits up, wincing as his spine protests. There’s a deeper ache inside of him, too, licking along his ribs and the lining of his stomach. He thinks it might be his powers—used up and raw from the time travel—but he’s afraid to test them again. He doesn’t want to end up in a _different_ apocalypse somehow. 

“I’m up,” he croaks instead, shoving the ache away. At least he’s used to ignoring the limitations and hurts of his own body. Dad’s made sure of that. He won’t slow Klaus down. 

Klaus smiles at him—a gentle thing he has no idea what to do with—then hands him the mug from dinner last night, this time filled with what must be rainwater. Five drinks obediently. It’s cool and fresh on his tongue, soothing his parched throat. He passes the cup back once it’s empty and watches Klaus tuck it into his pack. The little camp stove from last night has also been put away and Klaus has changed into a sleeveless tie-dye shirt. He has tattoos that Five doesn’t recognize, in addition to the painfully familiar umbrella: hello and good-bye on his palms; a bird of some kind, possibly a phoenix, on his shoulder; and flowers crawling up his right arm, with a snake twined through them. He thinks the cluster of blue ones near Klaus’s elbow are forget-me-nots, and they seem to be covering up a large scar. 

Interesting. 

“Right,” Klaus says, shrugging on a jacket and hiding the tattoos away. “We should hold off on breakfast for a few more hours, if that’s okay with you.” 

He nods. He’s used to going without food, as punishment, and he can ignore the frustrated grumble of his stomach for now. Klaus squeezes his shoulder and he tries not to flinch on instinct. He’s never been big on touch, especially when so much of it has been bad. His Klaus likes it and often initiates it where he can. Five usually brushes him off but ... he thinks of this Klaus, alone for over a year in a wasteland, and resolves not to do that anymore. 

Besides, it’s surprisingly comforting. 

“Where are we going?” he asks as he collects his own pack. He reorganized it before going to sleep last night, folding everything up as efficiently as he could to maximize on space. He can still practically hear Luther and Diego teasing him about the pink color, but it’s sturdy and _does_ have a lot of room and handy pockets. Plus Klaus seemed to like it, it made him smile. 

“Scavenging,” Klaus replies. “This city is pretty picked over, but there’s one a few days’ walk from here that still has lots of intact sections that I haven’t explored yet. We might be able to find stuff there.” 

“What kind of stuff?” 

He can already guess, but he wants to start making his own list. Be useful. 

Klaus hums. “A gas mask for you is priority numero uno.” He starts ticking things off his bony fingers. “Then more food, a holster for you, a decent knife for you, if we can find one. Ideally some more weapons and ammo, first aid supplies, and a flashlight but we’ll see what happens.” He shrugs. 

Five nods again, arranging them all in his head in order of priority. He can do this. He’s not going to freak out again. “Okay.” 

He follows Klaus out of the theater. The rain has stopped, yielding to blue skies and bright sunlight, but the air smells damp and earthy. He squints at the vine covered buildings, the remnants of civilization slowly being subsumed by nature. It would be beautiful, if not for the bodies and the monsters. 

He thinks back to the ruined mansion, to Klaus saying that everyone died, and … “Wait, are they buried there? At the Academy?” 

Klaus freezes mid-step and turns to face him with a grimace that’s all the confirmation he needs. 

“Can I see them?” 

It’s sentimental, stupid—something Dad would berate him for—but he wants it so desperately, it feels like a need. He _needs_ to see it, to cement into his head that this is _real_ and they’re _gone_ and it’s just him and Klaus. He _needs_ to separate them from the siblings he can still see around the dinner table, that were present and alive in his life only a day ago. He has a feeling he’s not going to survive otherwise. 

And maybe Klaus understands that because he nods and sighs in resignation. “Fine. Quick pit stop to pay our respects. I _did_ promise them I’d be back for a proper goodbye.” 

He must come to visit them often. Maybe every year? 

“Thank you,” Five says, a little stiff but sincere. 

Klaus waves a dismissive hand. “It’s fine. Come along, baby brother.” 

Five bites back an automatic retort at that. Klaus, unfortunately, _is_ now seventeen years older than him. Almost old enough to be his father and god _nope,_ nope _not_ thinking about that. He takes a deep breath and starts walking, ignoring Klaus’s amused, knowing gaze boring into the side of his head. 

_ _ 

The ruined mansion is eerie and strange. Something out of a dream, just like the rest of this world. Dad likes silence, but even that imposed quiet can’t hold a candle to the _stillness_ that blankets the main hall and the empty rooms. Every crunch of his feet against dirt and rubble feels as loud as a gunshot, every breath deafening. Twenty-four hours ago, this place was intact, and the contrast makes him dizzy. He can almost see himself and his siblings around the dining table, Herr Carlson droning on in the background as they eat. He wants to reach into that scene and grab ahold of his past self—tell him to stay sitting, tell him it won’t be worth it, you’re going to get _stuck_ and about this one, terrible thing Dad was _right._

But the table is gone and he’s _stuck_ and Klaus is leading him into the remnants of the courtyard, where four headstones rest. All his air dries up at the sight of them, at the _reality_ of this. 

_I want to go home,_ he thinks and then berates himself for being so childish. Pointless _sentiment_ isn’t going to help anything. 

So he forces his feet forward, forces his suddenly watering eyes to take in the scene in front of him—to count Pogo’s headstone, then mom’s, then Ben’s. The knife that’s clearly for Diego, the violin for Vanya. 

And the book for him. 

“Dune,” he chokes, touching the battered cover with trembling hands. He’s pretty sure this exact copy is sitting on his shelf in 2002. He wants to throw up. 

“You’ve always loved it,” Klaus says quietly, from somewhere behind him. “It was the best tribute I could find, considering the circumstances.” 

_What circumstances?_ He wants to ask. _How did he die? This version of me? How did the rest of them die? What were they like? How did you survive? How am I going to?_

He swallows them all down, unsure if he wants answers or not. Dad is always saying he supports the pursuit of knowledge, but what about knowledge that could break you? 

A hand lands on his shoulder—heavy, smothering, comforting. Klaus. 

“Hi,” he says. “Told you I’d come back to say goodbye.” 

Five realizes that he’s talking to the graves, to the ghosts. 

“Are they here?” he whispers, shivering at the idea of being watched by the specter of himself. 

But Klaus shakes his head. “No. And yes? I can’t see them, or hear them, but there are … echoes.” He smiles and it’s a bitter, gnarled thing. “Or maybe I just can’t let go.” 

_Foolish,_ Dad’s voice chides in Five’s head. Not for the first time, he tells it to shut up. He doubts he’d be able to let go, either, if he was the one stuck alone—the only one left. Even now, he has the strange desire to talk to them, these versions of his siblings he didn’t know. This version of himself that died with them. 

They’ve gone on several dangerous missions, in his timeline. He’s faced down more armed enemies than he can count and logically, he knows that it was dangerous. But because of their abilities, it’s never _really_ felt that way. He never _really_ thought about the possibility of any of them dying. They were more powerful than anyone on Earth, so surely that meant they were invincible. Right? 

_Foolish,_ Dad snaps again and this time he has no counter argument, no defense. Not with the evidence of their mortality screaming in his face. 

Klaus is still talking—has stepped forward to sit in the dirt in front of the graves. Five tunes back in slowly. “...don’t worry, I won’t get him killed. I know I’m not the _best_ one for this, but hey, have a _little_ faith in me.” 

Him, Klaus is talking about him. Five’s chest pulls tight with an emotion he can’t understand or name. He swallows around the stone lodged at the back of his throat. Blinks back the tears that want to form again. He _won’t_ cry. He’s not _weak._

“Anyway,” Klaus continues and stands again, brushing off his pants. “We need to get going. I…” he hesitates. Chews on his lip. “Maybe we’ll be back. But take care, wherever you are.” 

He picks up his pack and offers Five a tired smile. “Ready?” 

“In a second,” Five murmurs. “Can I … can I have a second?” 

“Sure,” Klaus agrees easily. “Watch the ceiling on your way out.” 

Five nods silently and watches Klaus slip from the courtyard like another ghost. _He’s real, though,_ Five reminds himself. _He touched you, you’re not alone._ God, he doesn’t want to think about what would have happened if he was alone. He blows out a stuttering breath and approaches the graves, reaching out to touch the soft head of the octopus plushie sitting by Ben’s. It’s ridiculous and he’s not sure whether it makes him want to smile or cry. 

He crouches down instead, arms around his knees. “I know I don’t belong here,” he whispers into the silence—the awful, resounding quiet. “And I know I have … a lot of catching up to do. But, I promise I’m going to look after him too. As best I can.” 

The wind picks up—rattles the leaves of the trees that have grown so much taller than Five remembers. He wonders if it’s an answer. Decides that it can be. 

So he unfolds from his hunched position, squaring his shoulders. These clothes feel heavy on him, so different from the uniform he’s worn all his life. The gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans weighs the most. Dad only bothered with basic weapon’s training—why would superpowerd children need guns? But right now the tear inside of him _seethes_ and he’s grateful to have this failsafe, as clumsy and strange as it is. 

“Goodbye,” he says to the graves, to these versions of his siblings, to perhaps even the ones still seated at that dinner table. He doesn’t know when he’ll see them again, or if he ever will. They may be frozen there forever, watching him run away, watching him _leave._

He sniffs and wipes at his eyes before any tears can fall. He needs to be strong now, stronger than he’s ever been. He doesn’t look back as he exits the courtyard and he tells himself it isn’t the same, isn’t just running away a second time in as many days. They’re dead, in this timeline. They can’t judge him. 

Klaus is leaning against an abandoned car in the street outside, humming idly to himself and staring up at the sky. He smiles when he spots Five emerging from the mansion, much warmer than the one he offered inside, much warmer than any Five remembers receiving from his own Klaus. 

“Respects paid?” he asks in that soft lilt of his. 

Five nods. Forces himself not to fidget with the straps of his pack. 

“Excellent,” Klaus declares with a clap. “Then let us embark.” 

A deep breath. “Lead the way.” 

_ _ 

They walk for three days, winding their way east. They mostly stick to broken and long-abandoned highways, though sometimes Klaus takes them through meadows or forests, following a mental map of some kind. It rains again on the first evening, forcing them to stop early and take shelter in a mostly-intact farmhouse, perched on the edge of one of those fields. Klaus checks it for Infected while Five huddles on the porch, drenched and too tired to argue about being left outside like a helpless kid. 

“All clear,” Klaus says after a few minutes, unlocking the front door for him. There are pictures scattered around, gathering dust. A family of four—mother, father, two daughters, all sporting beaming faces in front of monuments and mountains and the ocean. Five wonders what happened to them, then finds bloodstains in the master bedroom and a discarded gun and can guess. Still, they have a working generator and some canned food that wasn’t taken in their basement, so Klaus cooks them dinner on an actual stove while they dry their clothes on the hissing radiators. 

He can’t bring himself to sleep in any of the beds, though, especially the daughters,’ still littered with dolls and stuffed animals and remnants of a childhood cut violently short. Klaus must feel the same way, because they each end up taking a couch in the living room, doing their best to breathe through the lingering dust. Fortunately, exhaustion makes it easy to sleep. 

The second day gives them better weather and they walk at least twenty miles, by Five’s calculation, stopping a few times for water and rest and once to force down a disgusting protein bar that Klaus apparently found a stash of two weeks ago. 

(“Your sense of taste will evaporate, don’t worry,” he says in response to the grimace Five can’t hide.)

Five hates being grateful to Dad for anything, but he’s rapidly starting to appreciate all the endurance training they were forced to go through. His feet still blister badly from the new boots and he insists on wrapping them himself the second night, feeling small and _helpless_ and _stupid_ —Dad’s voice berating him in the back of his head. 

_I told you so, Number Five, and now look at you! Hardly able to withstand a simple day of walking. How do you expect to survive this situation you’ve landed yourself in, hmm?_

Klaus doesn’t press him, just heats yet more soup over his little camp stove. They passed a cluster of abandoned houses two miles back but now familiar shrieking from the first one deterred them, forcing them into the woods to spend a night in the open. Once they’ve eaten dinner, though, Klaus takes something new from his pack and passes it over. 

“I have a job for you, Five-0.” 

“What is it?” Five asks warily, glancing down at the object and realizing it’s a massive paper map. Probably of the whole country. He unfurls it carefully, spreading it out on the grass, and sure enough, there’s a national map and then a bunch of small regions on their own separate maps—the whole thing tucked into a sleeve like a pocketbook. Most of them are blank, except for the northeast, which has been filled in with colorful markers. There seems to be a meaning to each color and Five quickly starts to deduce them. 

“Red for Infected areas,” he says out loud, mostly to himself. “Green for good supply yields. Yellow for unscouted locations. Blue for safe sleeping areas. Orange for … other hostiles?” 

“Humans,” Klaus replies quietly. “Other humans. Usually military or … worse things.” 

Five isn’t sure he’s ready to know what those worse things might be, so he turns his attention back to the map. A depressing amount of it is red. But there’s black shaded in around Boston, Pittsburgh, and Hartford, with a question mark next to Pittsburgh. “QZ,” Five reads the letters scrawled by Boston. 

“Quarantine Zone,” Klaus says. “A bunch of them were established after the initial outbreak. They’re free of Infected.” 

“But I’m guessing there’s a trade off?” Because otherwise, Klaus would be in one. 

“Ah, always so smart, little brother,” Klaus says with a jagged laugh. “There is indeed a _massive_ tradeoff. After the outbreak the government collapsed and the military took over. Well them and FEDRA.” 

“FEDRA?” 

Klaus adopts a pompous voice. “Federal Disaster Response Agency. As you can see, they were _super_ effective!” He sweeps his arm in a gesture that Five thinks is meant to encompass the entirety of the ruined world around them. “Anyway, the QZs are run by them, with the help of the military, and they rule with a fist made of so much iron that Dear Old Dad would weep in envy were he alive to witness it in action.” 

Five winces. “Martial law?” 

“And then some.” 

“So we stay away from QZs.” 

“Far, far away.” 

It probably says something about them that they’d rather deal with the dangers of Infected than live under imposed military rule, but that’s another thing Five feels too raw to look at closely right now. He traces the other notes scribbled in the margins of the map. Things like: _good water supply here, should come back_ or _intact pharmacy here, stock up on med supplies._ He recognizes it, he realizes. Has seen it many times before on schoolwork and tests and the edges of music sheets. 

“This is Vanya’s handwriting,” he whispers. 

“Yeah,” Klaus says with cracking grief. “She’s the one that came up with the whole system. I’m terrible at things like this. Thought you might want to take it over.” 

There are a few notes here and there in Klaus’s scrawl, suggesting that he’s not nearly as bad at it as he’s insisting he is. Which means he’s probably offering this to Five as a way to combat those feelings of uselessness. A part of him wants to sneer and snap at that, offended by the idea that Klaus might pity him. The rest, though, just wants to clutch the map to his chest and weep with gratitude at having something, _anything,_ to focus on. 

“Yeah,” he says, working hard to keep his voice steady. “I can do that.” 

He examines the map again, trying to extrapolate their position from the street signs he remembers seeing along their journey today. “Wait,” he says, tracing their general path from the mansion, out of the city limits, to their current position, “we’re heading _toward_ a QZ right now.” 

Klaus clears his throat sheepishly. “Ah, yeah. Okay so _normally_ we stay away from them, but it’s also the best chance of finding you a mask. And we’re not going _into_ one, just the outskirts of Boston.” 

Five frowns. He hates feeling adrift like this, depending on someone else to explain the world around him. He squints at the black around Boston, then notices a symbol drawn near it in orange ink that he’d missed at first glance. “What’s this?” 

“Why we’re going to Boston,” Klaus responds and then sighs when Five glares at him. “They call themselves the Fireflies. They’re a militia group that cropped up two years ago and has been gaining members like fleas on a rabid dog. They hate FEDRA and the military—want a return to the federal government.” 

“I’m guessing there’s another problem?” 

Klaus shakes his head. “Their methods aren’t subtle _or_ peaceful. They like to blow shit up and they don’t care about casualties or fallout, _especially_ if it’s FEDRA people they’re blasting to smithereens.” 

Shit. “So they’re fighting them here?” He taps the area outside Boston. 

“Yep. Trying to gain control of the QZ. Failing miserably, but still trying. Gotta admire their gumption, really.” 

Pieces are rapidly falling together. “So if they’ve been skirmishing, chances are bodies and equipment are getting left behind. Military units and militia would be more fully outfitted than civilians so…” 

“Higher chance for a gas mask, yep.” 

“But also of getting shot or captured.” 

Klaus shrugs. Five would believe him to be completely unbothered by the prospect of danger if it wasn’t for the line of tension running through his shoulders. “What’s reward without a little risk, eh, Fivey?” 

Well, he _is_ used to facing down heavily armed people. It’ll be more straightforward than ravenous Infected, even if he’s never done it without the aid of his powers. And honestly, all those times felt like a game more than anything. He had his powers and his siblings and he was invincible—that confidence never wavered, no matter what injuries any of them sustained. This feels different. This is just Klaus—haggard and haunted but trying to assure him—and an unknown world. He’s scared in a way that he’s never been before and he _hates_ it. 

He’s not going to let Klaus see it, though. 

“Right,” he says with his best cocky grin—the one that always came so easily whenever he donned his mask and ventured out on a mission. He wonders if Klaus’s Five had the same smile, if he wore it when he died. “It’s no fun otherwise.” 

Klaus claps him on the back and stands to clean up dinner. “There’s the spirit. We should be there by tomorrow afternoon so get some rest.” 

It’s harder to do, out in the open like this instead of within the relatively safe confines of a house. But exhaustion is a powerful thing and it pulls him under eventually, lulled by the sound of Klaus humming a song he doesn’t recognize. It sounds sad, though. And soothing, like a long-forgotten lullaby. 

_ _ 

It rains again the third day, but this time they push through it, relying on their raincoats to protect them from the worst of the elements. Five’s jeans are still nearly soaked through by the time they exit the forest into what was probably once a quiet suburb—empty houses all lined up in white-clapboard uniform, like rows of towering ghosts. It’s so quiet it’s eerie, just like the mansion. No howls of Infected, no signs of life other than the faint chirp of birds in the trees. But he can smell smoke, taste it acrid on his tongue, and several of the houses are littered with bullet holes. 

And then they round a corner and step into what feels like an active war zone. He pulls up short at the sight of military grade trucks scattered down the road, several of them toppled on their side like dominos. A few are gushing smoke, thick black plumes barely dispersed by the misting rain, and mangled bodies lie between them in distorted, inhuman shapes. 

“Shit,” Five blurts. 

“Yeah,” Klaus agrees grimly and blows out a slow breath. “Hey!” He’s looking about two feet to Five’s right. “You! Yes, _you._ Yes, yes, I can see you and no I don’t have time to explain, we’re on a tight schedule. When did this happen?” 

A ghost, Five realizes, he must be talking to a ghost. It’s strange, witnessing Klaus actually _using_ his power. Five’s Klaus never has—too afraid of the dead to ever attempt to communicate with them. Five thinks that it might be slowly driving Klaus insane, but he’s never known how to help him or if he even should. _This_ Klaus isn’t afraid, though. He’s got his arms crossed and also seems seconds away from impatiently tapping his foot as he nods along to whatever the ghost is saying. 

“This morning, excellent. And they’ve moved on? … good.” A scoff. “No, I’m not an errand boy, I don’t fulfill ghost favors. You knew what you were getting into, pal.” A pause. “Come on, what did you think joining an _armed_ _militia_ meant?” Another pause and Klaus actually rolls his eyes. “Unbelievable. Well, I’m sorry for your death, rest in peace and all that.” He waves his hand imperiously. “Begone.” 

And … silence. 

“Did you just … banish him?” Five asks. 

Klaus shrugs. “Something like that. I don’t actually know where they go, they just can’t bother _me_ anymore. Maybe I push them into the light or whatnot but honestly, I don’t care.” 

Huh. Fascinating. 

Something must show on his face because Klaus smiles in wry amusement. “I’m guessing that little me isn’t big on the ‘using his powers’ thing, huh?” 

_That_ feels like an understatement. “He doesn’t contribute on missions and spends most of his time smoking weed that he thinks we don’t know he’s smuggled into the house,” Five says flatly. 

Personally, he’s always liked Klaus for his humor and empathy but been infuriated by him at the same time—both for polluting his mind with substances _and_ shying away from his own powers. How is he supposed to stop being afraid of them if he doesn’t even _try_ to learn how to control them? And every time he’s tried to tell Klaus this, he’s just been laughed off. It’s _maddening._

“Ah yeah, that sounds about right,” this Klaus says. “Go easy on him, Fivey. His powers suck major ass and Dad’s methods for _helping_ him are bullshit, if they’re anything like what I went through.” 

Well _that_ sounds ominous. “What _did_ you go through?” 

But Klaus pats his shoulder and strides past him. “I’ll tell you later. For now, check the bodies and the trucks.” 

You know what? Klaus might just be infuriating in _every_ timeline, even if he has a point. 

Five shakes his head in exasperation and picks his way towards the closest truck. It’s upright, but a gaping hole’s been blown in its side and when he peers through it he finds the exploded remnants of at least two people. The stench of blood and death is nearly suffocating and he stumbles away from the gore-splattered carriage with a hand over his mouth, feeling bile surge up his throat. 

Come on, no throwing up. No weakness. He’s watched Ben tear people in half on missions, this should be nothing. He swallows, steadying himself, and checks the front. The driver is charred and still smoking, mouth stretched open in an eternal scream. His passenger doesn’t look much better and neither of them have masks. 

Shit. 

The second truck is tipped over, forcing him to drop down into the mud to check the carriage. He finds more bodies with pieces missing and _so_ much more blood, but no mask. The third truck crashed into a tree—its driver shot in the head and missing a good chunk of his skull. The back is empty, suggesting that the passengers managed to escape. There’s a body underneath it, though, nearly trapped by one of the wheels. He spots a mask hanging from its belt, but the cracked surface immediately dashes his hopes. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

The fourth truck looks like it took a missile to the front and he scratches his hands on broken glass when he crouches to peer into the shattered driver’s compartment. Nothing, of course. But the carriage is still mostly intact and he hauls open the back doors to find several bodies slumped inside, all shot. He nearly slips in the blood pooled on the floor as he carefully climbs up to check on them. 

Nothing, nothing, nothing, _bingo._

He clenches his teeth to keep an instinctive, childish shout of victory from escaping and unhooks the mask from the fourth soldier’s pack. It looks to be in near-perfect condition, just blood-spattered. He clambers down from the truck, clutching his find tight in his scraped-up hands. 

“Klaus!” he calls. “I found one!” 

Klaus appears from behind the fifth truck, approaching him at a brisk jog. “Holy shit, you did?” 

Five shows him the mask and he beams—a real, genuine smile. 

“Excellent work, little brother,” he says, cupping Five’s dirty face in his palms and giving him a happy shake. And the gentle touch shouldn’t matter _or_ the praise, but both send a jolt of warmth through Five. He can’t remember the last time someone told him he did a good job, called his work _excellent._

“Thanks,” he mumbles, embarrassed, and pulls away from Klaus’s grip. “What now?” 

The distant rumble of an engine cuts off whatever Klaus might have been about to say. They both freeze, spinning in the direction of the sound. It’s coming from the south—toward the QZ—and getting steadily louder. 

“Now we get the hell out of Dodge,” Klaus says, low and urgent. 

Five hurriedly hooks the mask onto his own belt and runs after Klaus. They cut through several empty houses, finding more slashed and bullet-ridden bodies along the way—it looks like the fight fanned out to encompass a decent amount of the neighborhood. 

Five’s heart is pounding and he’s panting by the time they finally stop, safely in the woods and out of sight. He wonders if it’s going to be like this all the time: running and hiding and getting away by the skin of your teeth. Evidence suggests the answer is yes. 

“Okay,” Klaus says when they’ve caught their breath. “I declare that food and the rest can wait until tomorrow. Let’s get out of this fucking rain.” 

"Language,” Five chides, just to be a brat, and is rewarded by a light punch to his shoulder. 

“I’m the adult, I can swear.” 

“Aren’t you supposed to be setting a good example?” 

“ _Me?”_ Klaus says in outrage. “A good example? Please, Five.” 

“Right, what was I thinking?” 

Klaus shakes his head, still looking upset, but Five can see a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and has to fight down one of his own. This kind of banter feels so … _easy._ It’s different from the arguments he has with his siblings—those always get so sharp so quickly, like they can’t help attaching knives to their words and hurling them at each other. But this Klaus doesn’t do that, doesn’t carry any knives at all, and it makes Five lay down his own. 

He likes it. 

“Come on,” Klaus says, gesturing to the west. “I think there’s some houses over there we can camp in.” 

He sets off and Five follows. 

_ _ 

There _is_ a house, thank god. It’s even free of holes in the roof or sides. No generator this time so Klaus hauls several buckets of rainwater inside and pours them into the tub so they can wash the mud and blood off their skin and clothes. It’s cold enough to make Five’s teeth chatter, but it feels good to be clean and Klaus produces a fluffy blanket from somewhere that he drapes over Five’s shoulders once Five’s redressed. He’s too tired to push Klaus away, just lets himself be taken care of for the moment. 

Dinner is instant oatmeal—a blessed break from soup—that Klaus cooks in the middle of the living room with his trusty camp stove. 

“I need to get more fuel,” he mutters to himself. Five adds it to his mental list in case Klaus forgets. 

Once they’re finished eating, they wash their dishes with a new bucket of rainwater, then flop side by side back on the floor, resting against the sofa. 

“You’re doing really well, Fivey,” Klaus says after a moment of comfortable silence. “Adapting and all that.” 

“I have to,” Five mumbles, embarrassed again. “It’s necessary for survival. You don’t need to … butter me up about it.” 

“I’m not,” Klaus promises and draws an X over his heart. “No unfounded flattery from me, I swear.” 

_You’re too nice,_ Five wants to protest, but it gets tangled up in his throat so he settles for looking away to keep Klaus from seeing the equally tangled emotions on his face. 

An arm settles over his shoulders. He’s learning that Klaus won’t let him run away.

“This is a terrible world,” Klaus says softly. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, especially my family. But you’re staring it dead in the face and refusing to back down and I’m _proud_ of you for that, Five. And I’m allowed to say it.” 

“I can just ignore you,” Five grumbles petulantly.

“But you don’t want to,” Klaus says with far too much knowing. Bastard. 

Five huffs, not bothering to deign that with a comeback. Klaus sighs at him, but doesn’t remove his arm. It’s heavy, claustrophobic, anchoring. Five sinks, in increments, into Klaus’s side until his head is resting against Klaus’s. Klaus shifts, hand coming up to pet Five’s hair in a gesture that reminds him of Mom. He’s humming again, the same song from before that Five wishes he could place. 

It’s more comforting than it should be and eventually it lulls him to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you so desire, you're welcome to follow me on tumblr @wobblyspelling.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks! Thanks so much for your continued support of this fic! It means a lot <3 This chapter is so long, but hopefully that's not a bad thing. **Extra Warning** for mentions of past suicide attempts and suicidal ideation. 
> 
> Opening quote is from The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot.

_I think we are in rats’ alley_

_Where the dead men lost their bones._

_“What is that noise?”_

_The wind under the door._

_“What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?”_

_Nothing again nothing._

_“Do_

_“You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember_

_“Nothing?”_

_I remember_

_Those are pearls that were his eyes._

_“Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”_

_ _   
  


**SPRING**

It rains and rains and rains, all the way through May and right up to the threshold of June. Already broken roads wash out and rivers swell, flooding fields that used to be farmland and turning them into swamps. Klaus is used to hating nature just as much he enjoys the beauty of it but this is a level of _fuck you_ he hasn’t experienced since the outbreak. He’s tired of the endless mud and the precarious hillsides and way that the fungus thrives in this kind of weather. He can almost hear it laughing as it morphs Runners into Stalkers and then Clickers and then probably worse things he’d rather not discover. 

Five picked up a notebook in a drugstore the second week of April and he’s been scribbling in it ever since. Math equations that Klaus can’t begin to understand and supply lists and notes and sketches of the world around them. It’s a comfort thing, Klaus knows. A coping mechanism for Five to focus on instead of the crushing panic of being trapped in a world that’s very much trying to kill him at every turn. 

“So, there are three stages of infection,” he says one night in mid May, tapping the notebook. They’re in another abandoned house with dusty furniture and moss growing on the walls and outside it’s raining, raining, fucking raining. And naturally the occupants of _this_ house are still hanging around. Klaus is exhausted from an earlier doomed supply run and a harrowing encounter with a large group of Stalkers in an office building so he hasn’t banished them yet. Which means the mother and her son, both sporting ugly head wounds, are hovering at the edges of the living room and glaring at him for getting their sofas dirty. 

He flips them off because he can and turns his attention to Five, seated on the floor with his notes spread around him. He’s been sketching out a Stalker for the last fifteen minutes and Klaus has to admit he’s a much better artist than expected. That’s a frighteningly accurate rendition and he’s an authority on it because _god_ those things got too close for comfort. 

“That we know of,” he points out. Because leave it to this stupid fungus to have several more levels of _fuck you_ left in its arsenal. 

Five hums, pushing his damp bangs out of his face. “I wonder what the progression is.” 

Klaus shrugs. He’s sure there’s a pattern but he’s been too busy either killing Infected or running from them to contemplate it much. “Faster when wet,” he offers. “That’s my only conclusion.”

Five rolls his eyes, like the bratty little brother he is. “I _did_ deduce that much.” He frowns down at his notebook, flipping through the pages and his drawings. Klaus already knows what’s in them, because he _has_ at least made his own list of the stages over the years, in order to best deal with them. 

Stage 1: Runners — look the most human, sound the most human, and probably still have some kind of consciousness but again Not Thinking About That. Faster than you think they’re going to be. Poor eyesight but can definitely still see you, _absolutely_ don’t forget that. Wicked teeth and developing claws that they will happily use to tear your skin off. 

Stage 2: Stalkers—fungal growth starting to take over, especially around the face and head. Look like something out of a Lovecraft novel, real Eldritch Horror, There Be Creatures in the Woods type shit. Like dark spaces, traveling in packs, and sneaking up on you, making them a goddamn bitch to fight. Nasty bite, nasty claws, horrible shrieking sounds—Klaus’s least favorite to deal with. 

Stage 3: Clickers—fungal growth has completely consumed the face and head and spread to most of the body, meaning they can’t see at all but boy do they make up for that with hearing. Even the smallest noise alerts them to someone’s presence, it’s fucking terrifying. And okay he hasn’t _actually_ conducted Research, but he’s pretty sure they use echolocation and the sound of their creaking wails haunts his dreams. They’re blessed with supernatural strength, too, because of course they are, and can rip your throat out with a single bite. (Personal experience speaking here.) They’re _not_ as annoying as Stalkers, though, because they’re slower and usually you can see and hear them coming. Sure, it takes a lot of bullets to put them down but at least they give you the opportunity instead of trying to claw you in the back. 

Anyway, he’s sure Five notes are more cohesive and Scientific because he’s Five and chances are he operates the same across parallel universes. He’ll probably have worked out times between stages within the year and if there are any scientists left, they’ll burn with rage at being outdone by a thirteen-year-old. 

That’s, of course, presuming Five is still here. But that’s another thing he’s Not Thinking About and so far Five hasn’t shown any inclination to use his powers again. 

He’s writing on their map now, shading several downtown sections red. They’ll need to move on soon—the rain is making it more and more dangerous to stay in the region. Maybe they can head south, towards the coast. It would be nice to see the ocean … Ben was always badgering him to go. 

Klaus banishes thoughts of Ben and hauls himself to his feet with a low groan. “What do you want for dinner?” 

“What’s on the menu?” Five asks without looking up. 

“Hmm, let’s see. We have chicken soup, chicken soup, _or_ our house special: chicken soup.”

“You know what,” Five says, “I think I’ll have chicken soup.” 

“Excellent choice.” 

He bypasses the mother and son. Fortunately, Five seems more interesting to them and they stay close to him, peering down at his map. At least he’ll be able to cook dinner in peace, and hopefully by tonight he’ll have enough energy back to banish them. He doesn’t want to try to sleep with them looming over him. 

Five has started humming to himself—a habit Klaus is pretty sure was picked up from him. It’s quiet background music as Klaus turns on the stove and heats the soup. 

Two months and he’s already forgetting what it’s like to be alone. 

Terrifying. 

_ _ 

He teaches Five to shoot in the last days of May—tin cans lined up on a slowly-rotting pasture fence. They’re squatting in someone’s farmhouse and Klaus nearly wept at the discovery of a fully-stocked cellar. They haven’t eaten this good in weeks. _He_ hasn’t eaten this good in _years._ After they cooked a dinner that included biscuits and cured meat and vegetables dug up from a still-intact garden, they sat just staring at their plates in quiet awe and it was a little pathetic, yes, but can you blame them? Klaus is so sick of soup, he’s going _insane._

Five’s hands are steady on the rifle as he hefts it onto his shoulder and peers down the scope. Klaus stares at the determined clench of his jaw and remembers being in this same position with Diego four years ago, when Diego insisted that Klaus and Vanya learn how to handle weapons. Five is taking to it a lot easier than he did. The gun felt too heavy, back then—the crack of the bullets too loud, the recoil too strong. He never wanted to learn how to kill, no matter how much Reggie tried to train him. But in this awful new world, killing is inevitable and now he’s standing where Diego stood, teaching someone else. 

How strange is the circle of life. 

_It should still be you here,_ he tells the Diego that lives in his head. _You should be the one doing this._

But Diego is dead and all Five’s got is Klaus and all the knowledge Diego tried to cram into him. 

“Good,” he says now, slightly adjusting Five’s stance. “Now remember, recoil’s a bitch but let your torso move with it. Don’t try to brace too much, it’ll backfire on you.” This rifle used to be Diego’s and he fine-tuned it extensively, which means the recoil actually isn’t _too_ bad compared to other guns Klaus has handled, but also Five is _tiny._

Five takes a deep breath, finger poised over the trigger. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” Klaus says and steps back. 

Another deep breath. The rifle fires with a loud _crack_ that echoes across the field. The recoil knocks Five back but he stays on his feet … and a can falls off the fence. 

Klaus laughs. “Of course you’re a natural at this, Fivey.” 

Five wheezes. “I think I broke my shoulder.” 

“Ah, yeah. Like I said, it’s a bitch at first but you’ll get used to it. We can stick to handguns for now if you—” 

“No.” Five raises the rifle again, shifting back into position. “I’m fine.” 

Stubborn little shit. _That’s_ the same in every timeline too. 

“Okay, okay. Fire away, then.” 

He does. And again. And again. And again. Until all the cans have been knocked from the fence. It’s a waste of bullets Klaus wouldn’t normally allow, but the farm had a good supply of them in that same miracle cellar. So he resets the cans and lets Five go one more time. 

Once again, he’s a near perfect shot—only missing twice. He smirks after he nails the last one, every inch the smug teenager that Klaus remembers wanting to punch often as a kid. Now it just makes his chest ache with an indefinable sort of affection.

“Good job,” he says, taking the rifle from Five. “But let’s take a look at that shoulder.” 

It’s bruised, as predicted, and Klaus kicks himself for letting Five use the gun so much as he sits him down at the kitchen table and dabs cream where the skin is already darkening and swelling. 

“Hey,” Five says quietly, as if he can sense Klaus’s guilt and worry. “I’m okay. It’s just some bruising, right? That’s nothing I couldn’t deal with.” 

“I’m not Dad,” Klaus snaps with more emotion than he intended. Dad with his endless training sessions that made them bruise and bleed and _hurt._ Dad with his disregard for the limitations of their fragile bodies, for the fact that they were _children_ and no _child_ should have to push through cracked ribs or a broken arm or a sprained ankle to keep fighting. No child should be fighting at all. 

A small hand covers his, wrenching him from the spiral of his thoughts. Five has twisted to face him, pinning him with those big blue eyes. It’s unfair: this sympathetic look from his _baby brother._

“No, you’re not,” Five says, firm. “You’re _not_ Dad, Klaus, and this isn’t the same. I need to learn these things, right? To _survive._ Not go play hero. I can take a little bruising for that.” 

“You shouldn’t have to.” 

“But I _can._ ” 

“I know you can, Fivey,” Klaus murmurs. 

_That’s not the point,_ he wants to say but he doesn’t think that Five would understand. He doesn’t have the distance from Reginald Hargreeves that Klaus does. He isn’t able to look back through the decades and go _oh shit that was so fucked up_ with the clarity that Klaus has. He’s only been separated from the Old Man’s clutches for a mere two months and all of that brainwashing is still rattling around in his head, no matter how goddamn _smart_ he is. 

And Five’s _right,_ is the most terrible part. This is survival. This is a world that takes no prisoners, where it’s life or death around every corner and no fucking in between. Klaus has to do everything he can to give Five the best chance of staying alive, even if that means pushing him. Even if that means bruising and an empty stomach and nights of fleeting sleep. 

Christ but he _hates_ this. 

“Let me at least bandage it up,” he says. “So your pack doesn’t aggravate it too much.” 

“Okay,” Five agrees, probably for Klaus’s benefit more than anything else. He’s too wise for a thirteen-year-old, growing up far too fast. “And we can stick to handguns tomorrow. I think I’ll be able to handle the rifle in a bind now.” 

“Deal,” Klaus says and goes to get the first aid kit. 

_ _ 

**SUMMER**

June brings heat and rising temperatures, a warning for July. They strip off their coats and tie cloths over their faces to deal with the dust kicked up by persistent wind as they slowly make their way south. They skirt the smoldering ruins of Philadelphia, though Five gapes at the exploded skyscrapers from across the river. 

“What the hell happened here?” 

“Military bombed it,” Klaus says grimly. “There was an outbreak in the QZ.” 

He remembers the first time he made it down here with Diego and Vanya. The fires were still burning back then and he watched the flames glow brilliant in the darkness and felt the horrible knowledge sink in that _nowhere_ was safe, no one was going to protect them. He’s avoided QZs ever since. 

“Jesus,” Five breathes now, shaking his head. “The whole city?” 

“The whole city.” 

The ghosts are deafening, even from here, and they move on quickly. 

_ _ 

They reach the coast as June is ticking over into July and the ocean is so beautiful that Klaus thinks he might cry at the sight of it. 

“Come on,” he says to Five, kicking off his boots and hurriedly rolling up his pants. 

Five hesitates, because he’s a teenager that wants so desperately to be grown up and grown ups don’t frolic in the ocean, according to his worldview. 

Klaus sighs. “If you don’t come, I’m dragging you. Boots and all.” 

“Fine,” Five grumbles. 

Klaus drops his pack, then shrugs off his shirt and jeans and runs for the water in his boxers, yelling the whole way. The heat levels have been _unholy_ the last few days so it's blessedly warm when he crashes into the waves. 

“This is the best day of my life,” he announces, grinning up at the blue sky overhead. 

He _could_ have come before, many times, but it didn’t feel right alone. Didn’t feel right without Ben, especially, but he thinks Ben would approve of him taking Five. Who is now tentatively wading into the water with gritted teeth. He stops when it’s up to his waist and just stands there with his arms wrapped around his torso, looking like an uncomfortable cat with its hackles up. 

Well, time to fix that. 

He splashes over to Five. 

“Don’t you dare,” Five hisses, shifting backwards, but Klaus snags his shoulders and gleefully dunks him under the water. 

Five splutters and thrashes—elbows Klaus hard in the stomach and then breaks the surface again with a glare that would probably put him six feet under if he could die. Klaus cackles. 

“Your _face._ Oh what I wouldn’t give for a camera right—” 

Five pounces, slamming into him with more force than Klaus was expecting and they both crash backwards into the water. They come up splashing at each other. Klaus gets several facefuls and the taste of salt breaks sharp on his tongue as he manages to snag Five around the waist. 

“No!” Five flails. “Don’t you _dare_ pick me up, you—” 

Klaus picks him up. For a moment, Five looks like he’s contemplating how dirty he wants to fight. Klaus braces himself for a strike against his eyes or even a bite to his ear—his Five was _vicious_ when he wanted to be, especially as kids. But all Five does is tug on his hair and mutter. “Truce, enough. Put me down.” 

“I think this is a victory, actually.” 

“Fine, you win. Let go of me.” 

Klaus drops him back into the water. He finds his balance and stands up, wiping his wet hair out of his eyes. “You’re the worst.” 

Klaus waves a hand. “Please, you love me.” 

Five actually freezes at that and oh right, _not_ a declaration any of them would have made at this point in Five’s life. Klaus didn’t even make it out loud until it was too late for Ben and his Five and the world was three years into an apocalypse _and_ he thought Vanya was dying. After that, it became easier to say. At least until—

Right. _Not_ going there, brain. Nope. 

“Hardly,” Five sniffs now and turns to wade back to the shore. 

Klaus winces, genuine worry that he took things too far starting to creep in. 

“Wait, Five,” he reaches out and curls a hand over Five’s shoulder. And then suddenly Five is gripping his wrist and _yanking_ him forward and he’s got a mouthful of saltwater again. 

He coughs and sputters and when he regains his footing and blinks the blur from his eyes, there is Five, smirking at him. 

Oh the little _shit._

“I believe that’s _my_ victory,” Five says. 

“Technically we’re now tied,” Klaus points out. 

Five shrugs. “I’m sure we’ll find a way to break it.” 

“I should put you in time out.” 

Five’s grin turns a little feral. “You’re welcome to try.” 

“Okay, okay, _down,_ Fido.” Klaus waves his hands in surrender. “We should get a move on, anyway.” 

The sun is high in the sky now and they need to do some scavenging before they completely lose their light. According to Five’s map, they’re not far from Virginia Beach and while Klaus would prefer to avoid big cities, their food situation is getting a little _too_ desperate for comfort. The current plan is to check the outskirts and then camp on the beach for the night and he just hopes nothing goes wrong. 

He forgets too often, though, that god _and_ the universe absolutely hates his guts. Which is why a mere three hours later, he’s here: trapped on the second floor of a department store with two Clickers, a handful of Runners, and _way_ too many Stalkers. 

(He has mentioned those are his least favorite, right? Because his hatred of them _cannot_ be overstated.) 

He’s taken two out with a crowbar and Five emptied almost an entire clip into one of the Clicker’s faces before it went down but that still leaves too many, too many, _too many._ He shoots an approaching Runner, then ducks out of the swiping grasp of a Stalker and kicks the thing backwards with a boot to the chest. 

“We need to get out of here!” Five yells from where he’s huddled behind what used to be a display stand. 

He’s very right about that. At this rate, they’re going to run out of bullets before all the Infected are dead. There’s a fire escape on the other side of the store—if they get out from their pinned positions and past the Runner and the Clicker still near the doors to this section of the floor, then they _might_ be able to make a fast enough run for it. It’s a fucking longshot, _terrible_ odds, but Klaus doesn’t see any other solutions. 

He turns to convey this to Five and suddenly time slows down, unspools, because there’s a Stalker coming at Five from the left and it’s going for his throat and he’s noticed it, he’s shifting the gun towards it, but he’s going to be too slow, too _goddamn_ slow, but Klaus can stop this, he can—

He throws himself forward and grabs onto one of the fungal horns growing from the Stalker’s head, wrenching it to the side and—

—it turns on him in a whirlwind of teeth and claws, shrieking and snarling and—

—he staggers backwards, trying to get the thing away from Five, far away from Five, who’s screaming something he can’t understand but it’s strong, he always forgets how _strong_ Infected are and—

—it shoves him right into the wall of windows behind him with enough force to shatter them and—

—suddenly he’s in open air, still gripping onto the Stalker because _fuck_ if he’s going down it’s _coming with him_ and—

—he’s falling, he’s falling, but it’s okay, it’s only the second story, he’s survived worse than this, though broken bones are gonna be awful to deal with, he’ll manage and—

— _PAIN,_ searing, all-consuming pain punching right through the center of him. 

He gasps, chokes, and the world spins and swims. A car, he realizes after a moment. He landed on a car and the car had debris on it and something very sharp has punctured his stomach like a balloon. 

Oh. Fantastic. 

The Stalker is still alive, scrambling upright with a furious wail. Any second now, it’s going to tear him open even further, and he’s _not_ dealing with that on top of everything else. Gritting his teeth and pushing through the pain (fortunately, he’s so very used to pain), he pulls his knife from his belt and buries it in the Stalker’s neck, pushing through layers of protective fungal growth until he finds a fragile artery. It chokes and shrieks and dies in a gush of blood, toppling sideways off the car to the road below. 

Good fucking riddance. 

His vision blurs again. He can still hear other Infected above him and _Five,_ oh shit, he left Five up there alone, he has to get back to Five. His torso is on fire, has turned into an active volcano, but he curls a hand around the metal bar that’s impaled him and starts to pull. 

_Don’t,_ Diego warns him frantically. 

_Klaus, you’ll bleed out,_ Allison says. 

_It’s Five,_ he reminds them and yanks as hard as he can. 

The bar comes out with a sick squelch and he can’t hold back the scream that tears up his throat and out of his mouth as the pain gets _so much worse,_ oh _Christ._ But it’s out, he’s free. He presses his hand to the wound—blood leaking rapidly through the gaps between his fingers—and rolls off the car, catching himself with his other hand before he faceplants onto the asphalt. The dead Stalker is a few feet away, knife jutting out of its neck. Good, he lost his gun, but at least he still has this. He just needs to find a way to the fire escape and back up to the second floor. 

A burst of gunfire. The tell-tale, chilling roar of a Clicker. Shit, shit. 

_Come on,_ he tells his stupid, protesting body. _Move._

He manages a step. Then another. Black swims in the corners of his vision and blood, so much blood, soaks his pants and the ground and his hand. (Why couldn’t immortality have come with healing powers?)

He’s almost to the Stalker and the knife—just a few more steps, come on Klaus, don’t fail at this like you’ve failed at so many other things, Five _needs you_ —

His legs give out and he crashes to the pavement with a cry. Distantly, he registers that the street’s gone terrifyingly silent but the rest of his brain is occupied with trying to stay conscious. He gets himself back up on his knees, wincing at the literal _puddle_ of red beneath him—oh wow that’s bad, that’s really bad—and settles for half-crawling, half-dragging himself the rest of the way to the Stalker. Once there, it takes three tries to pry his knife free from its neck, and saps most of his strength. He coughs, blood or bile in his throat, and wheezes for breath. The black is getting more insistent now, pressing further and further into his field of vision. Somewhere, metal clangs and he swears he hears approaching footsteps. 

More Infected? He grips the knife, wondering if he’ll be able to at least get one good strike in, when hands land on his shoulders and a familiar, frantic voice is talking right in his ear. 

“Oh my god,” Five hiccups. “Shit, _Klaus._ ” 

Five is here. Five made it out. Five’s okay. 

_But you’re dying,_ Ben points out and oh shit yeah, he is. Rapidly. 

“Hold on,” Five is saying and another, smaller hand is pressing on his wound now, too, trying desperately to stop the blood flow that’s turned his tie-dye shirt crimson. It’s a lost cause—Klaus has died enough times to know when he’s beyond the point of no return and oh. Oh _shit,_ he never told Five about this facet of his powers. _He never told Five._

“Five,” he slurs now, gripping onto the front of Five’s shirt with shaky, bloody fingers. “Five, ‘s okay.” 

“Yeah,” Five responds, clearly on the verge of tears. “Yeah, it’s gonna be fine. We’re gonna get you bandaged up and you’re gonna be fine….” 

“No,” Klaus cuts him off. “No, ‘m dying but it’s fine, I’ll be—” he coughs and the rest of the words die in his throat. He’s fading too fast, his body going limp as the life leaves him. 

“ _No,_ ” Five gasps, sobs. “No, no, please you have to stay with me. You can’t leave me here, I can’t do this without you. _Klaus…”_

 _I’ll be back, I won’t leave you,_ Klaus tries to say but the black rushes in, yanking him down into a familiar abyss. 

And then he’s opening his eyes in an equally familiar gray forest. Perfect. 

“You need to stop doing this,” a little girl’s voice says from somewhere to his left. “It’s getting quite annoying.” 

Ugh, he doesn’t have time for her games today. He surges to his feet and turns to glare at her. “Send me back.” 

She smirks at him. “Why? You only just got here.” 

Oh for the love of—

“Because,” he snaps through gritted teeth, “my little brother is back there. _My baby brother_ and I’m _all he has_ and I just _died in front of him._ He thinks he’s all alone in a monster-infested hellscape so _send. Me. Back.”_

Wind whips through the trees, making the branches creak and moan ominously and stirring the hem of the little girl’s immaculate dress and the ends of her long dark hair. For a moment, a flash, the little girl looks … afraid. 

“It’s not that simple,” she says. 

“What do you mean? You made _everything_ didn’t you? Surely you can control _this._ ” 

“I can’t.” She shakes her head. “I’ve never been able to control anything related to you.” 

Klaus takes a deep breath. The trees quiver. “This is a _very_ inconvenient time to tell me this.” 

The little girl shrugs. “You’ll go back when it’s time.” 

“And _when is that?_ ” Another gust of wind, kicking up dried leaves into a flurry. The forest darkens several shades, gray warping to black. The little girl’s gaze is just as dark and empty—a galaxy, an abyss. 

“When it’s time,” she says and disappears. 

Klaus screams with rage and helpless frustration and the forest plunges into inky shadow. 

_ _ 

Time is strange in the forest and he’s not sure how long he paces and seethes before he feels the pull at the center of his chest and he’s yanked unceremoniously back into the mortal realm. Awareness creeps in more slowly. His hearing first: the sound of something striking the earth over and over, intercut with heaving, choked breaths. Sensation next: a cloth over his face and body, the heat of the sun pressing through the layer of fabric, the crust of dried blood on his clothes and skin, the parched ache of his mouth and throat. And finally sight: he blinks open his eyes to perforated darkness and realizes that he’s lying in the dirt with some kind of canvas over him. 

The sound continues: _thud,_ shift, creak, _thud,_ shift, creak. 

_Digging,_ his muddled brain supplies. Five is digging his grave. 

Oh fuck. 

He jerks upright, wrenching the tarp from his face. A few feet away, Five freezes where he’s clutching a shovelful of dirt, standing in a hole that’s already knee-deep. His pale face is bloody and tear-streaked, eyes red-rimmed and wild as they stare at Klaus, and Klaus feels like he’s been stabbed in the gut all over again. 

“Five,” he rasps. 

“Oh god,” Five breathes, little more than a sobbing exhale. “Oh god, I’ve lost it.” 

Ah yes, circle of life. 

“I’m not a hallucination, Fivey, it’s okay,” he says in his best calm, soothing voice. 

Five tightens his grip on the shovel, dirty knuckles bleaching white. “You died,” he says, jagged and broken. “You died in my arms. You’re _dead._ ” 

Carefully, Klaus stands. There is a chance that Five might try to brain him with that shovel. “Yes, that’s true. I died, but … it didn’t stick.” 

“What? What do you mean _didn’t stick?_ ” 

“Well it’s a new facet of my powers I discovered a couple years ago—really just another way for them to fuck me over, when you think about it, but yeah, I’m uh … pretty much immortal. Ta-da.” He waves his hands in a flourish. 

_You’re really fucking this up,_ his own Five informs him. 

At least Five drops the shovel. “Immortal?” he croaks, a dangerous edge creeping into his squeaky voice. 

Klaus remembers that sharpness from childhood and braces himself as Five stalks forward and punches him in the stomach, right over where the wound used to be. He gasps and bends over, pressing a hand to the ruined fabric of his shirt. 

“Okay, okay, I definitely deserved that but…” 

And Five is gone, marching in the opposite direction and rubbing at his eyes. Great. 

Klaus sighs and straightens again, taking stock of his surroundings. He’s in a field—tall grass brushing his waist—and now that he’s listening, he can hear the crash of the ocean. Five must have brought him back to the coast to bury him. He imagines his little brother lugging his broken body all the way out here and has to swallow down a sudden wave of bile. Shit, he must have been out for at least a day, probably two. 

Wonderful. 

He reties his hair into its customary bun with shaking hands and then changes out his bloodstained tie-dye shirt for a new neon tank top from his pack, left sitting by the half-dug grave. Both things make him feel marginally more human again, as does the gulp of water he takes from his canteen. He’ll wash his hands and arms off in the ocean, he decides. _After_ he talks to Five. He’s never been the best at heart-to-hearts but he knows he has to try. He owes it to the kid _and_ he doesn’t want to deal with a moody, brooding teenager for the foreseeable future. 

So let’s do this. 

Of course, it still takes him about fifteen minutes to _locate_ Five, during which his panic steadily increases until he’s worried a heart attack is going to send him right back to the cursed forest. But no, at _last,_ he finds him on the beach, sitting huddled on the shoreline in what Klaus has come to privately call The Sad Pillbug pose—all curled in on himself with his knees to his chest and his face buried in his arms. 

His shoulders are hitching and Klaus’s chest aches aches _aches_ as he sits next to him in the sand. 

“Oh, baby brother,” he murmurs, rubbing a gentle hand down Five’s heaving back. “I’m so sorry.” 

“I thought you were _gone,_ ” Five says without lifting his head. “I thought I was going to be alone out here.” 

“I know. I didn’t mean to scare you like that.” He pets through the messy tangle of Five’s hair. “I should have told you and I completely forgot and I’m so, so sorry.” 

Five finally lifts his head and he looks so terribly _young._ Looks every bit the kid he tries so hard not to be. “You can’t leave me,” he hiccups, wiping at his wet cheeks. “I couldn’t … you can’t leave me, I don’t want to do this alone, please don’t leave me….” 

“Come here,” Klaus murmurs and pulls Five into his side, weathering his initial resistance before he sags into Klaus’s hold, burying his face in Klaus’s chest. “I swear I won’t leave you.” He rests his chin on top of Five’s head. “I promise, Five. I’ll always come back. Just give me a couple days and keep my body somewhere safe and I’ll be right as rain. No matter what. I’m _not_ leaving you out here, cross my heart.” He draws an X on Five’s back for emphasis and then squeezes his eyes shut against the insistent push of his own tears. “I won’t leave you,” he murmurs, rocking Five back and forth as Five cries himself out—sobs gradually fading into faint hiccups and then silence. “I’m never going to leave you.” 

“I’ll hold you to it,” Five says eventually, still clinging to him. 

“Good,” Klaus says. “Please do.”

Five pulls away with a shuddery breath, using his sleeve to wipe his face. “I still kind of want to punch you.” 

“How long has it been?” 

A telling pause. “Two days. Nearly three.” 

“Shit.” 

Five stares out at the ocean—stoic mask back in place, the one he always uses when he’s feeling too much and he’s embarrassed about it, or scared of being too vulnerable. “I panicked the first day. Just dragged you into the store and tried to figure out what to do. Second day I realized I was out of food and I probably shouldn’t let myself starve. Went scavenging in the morning. Found a shovel and a cart to bring you out here. I didn’t … I didn’t want to try burying you in the city. I was too exhausted last night so I just slept on the beach. Started actually digging your grave this afternoon.” 

Klaus winces. Pats Five on the back because he’s not sure another verbal apology will be welcome. “Well, no need for the grave.” 

Five manages a weak scoff. “Yeah, talk about a wasted effort.” 

Okay, they’re joking about this. That’s hopefully a good sign. 

Klaus stands, then offers a hand to help Five up. “I’m guessing the food situation still isn’t great?” Five grimaces and shakes his head. “Right, let’s go scavenging, then.” 

_ _ 

They camp on the beach that night, under a blanket of stars, and eat the stale chips and cup noodles they managed to pilfer from a convenience store on the edge of the city. Five looks like he’s getting his sea legs back, but unfortunately that means his natural curiosity and thirst for knowledge is also making a grand return. 

So Klaus isn’t surprised when Five peers at him from across their little campfire and says, “can you come back from anything?” 

“Pretty much,” he answers vaguely. “Chocolate?” 

Five shakes his head at the offered Hershey's bar. “How do you know?” 

Five is trying to reassure himself, that much is obvious. But Klaus doesn’t particularly want to broach this _lovely_ subject, at least not until Five is older. 

_Do you really want to keep secrets from him?_ Vanya asks. 

_You can’t protect him forever,_ Luther adds. 

God, he hates when they’re right. 

“How do you think?” he murmurs because Five is smart, he’ll reach the right conclusion without Klaus needing to spell it out for him. 

It takes a moment, but he sees when Five gets there—the horror that breaks over his face. “You … you tested it?” 

Well that’s a very diplomatic way of saying _you killed yourself,_ Klaus will reward points for that. 

“I tested it,” he agrees. “A lot.” A bitter laugh escapes before he can stop it. “I mean, do you think I wanted this? To be the last one left? I’m not like you—well, _my_ you _and_ you you—or Diego or hell even Luther. I’m not a survivor! I never wanted to be stuck out here on my own. If I could have ended it at the start of this whole shitshow I would have.” 

Though at least he had Vanya and Diego to live for at the beginning, for the first four years. After they were gone the despair grew teeth and swallowed him whole. He tried again and again and again until the little girl in the forest stopped speaking to him and every time he woke up back in the realm of the living, all his wounds healed like they’d never been there, the despair sharpened and twisted until at last it expanded into numb emptiness. 

And then Five crashed into his life and here they are: seated across from each other on a beach in Virginia—sorrow and sympathy flooding Five’s expression. 

“Klaus…” he says, uncertain. 

“Ah, it’s okay, Fivey. Just … immortality is overrated, remember that. But I’ve made my peace.” He throws another stick on the fire, watching the answering burst of flame as it ignites. “So far, nothing has killed me permanently. And I covered a lot of my bases, you should be proud of me—conducting all this research.” 

Five is silent for long enough that Klaus thinks the conversation is over and that last joke was so bad that it scared him off. But then Five stands up and comes around the fire, settling right next to Klaus in the sand—close enough that their arms touch. 

Oh, Klaus realizes after a baffled moment, Five is trying to comfort him. 

He hides his smile, warmth flooding his chest, and offers the chocolate bar again. This time, Five takes it. 

_ _ 

**FALL**

It’s impossible to keep track of exact days anymore—all calendars stopped in 2013—but Klaus doesn’t want to let their birthday go uncelebrated. They’ve drifted west, away from the chilling bite of the ocean, and into colorful forests. Soon, they’ll have to start foraging for the winter and find a place to bunk down before the weather takes too harsh a turn. But for now, the world is beautiful, and Five’s notebook is nearly full. Klaus’s been getting back into sketching, too, and it’s a much more enjoyable activity when he’s not frantically scribbling on his walls as ghosts scream at him. Go figure. 

Anyway, birthday. Something they never celebrated as kids but Vanya insisted on after the outbreak, saying that they needed something good to look forward to. Of course, it’s always been bittersweet. Never does he feel the absence of his siblings more than on the day they’re all supposed to turn a year older. 

_Another year without them,_ he thought last fall, facing down the knowledge that he’s going to have more years without them than the three meager decades he got _with_ them. It still hurts now, it’s still another year they’re in the ground, but Five is here. Five is turning fourteen and Klaus wants that to mean something. So he starts planning. 

Presents: a new notebook definitely, and maybe an actual book. Five’s missed seventeen years of literature, surely Klaus can locate _something_ he hasn’t read that’s still intact. 

Cake? He can probably bake a cake with non-perishable ingredients, right? How hard can it be? And does it really matter if it has eggs and milk? He’s betting no. 

Safe place: he thinks, judging from Five’s map, that there’s an old ski lodge close to where they’re currently camping. If that place is clear and relatively well stocked, it would be perfect. He just needs to check it without Five knowing, which is easier said than done because he also panics if Five’s out of his sight for too long. They’re both still haunted by the Department Store Incident in Virginia Beach. 

In the end, he waits until they’re squatted in a safe house, located in an Infected-free neighborhood, and sneaks out while Five’s asleep. If he doesn’t get back before Five wakes up, Five will definitely kill him, but no risk, no reward, right? Fortunately, the ski lodge is only a two-hour hike further up the mountain. He brought a shotgun and the machete he picked up a few weeks ago, in addition to his usual pistol, so hopefully that will be enough. Unless the place is crawling with Infected or something. 

_Well here goes,_ he tells the disapproving Five in his head and bursts through the front door. 

Guess what? He gets lucky _again_ because it is, in fact, _not_ crawling with Infected. There’s a couple Runners, two Stalkers, and a Clicker in the basement—all of which he takes care of easily. (Honestly, he’s turned into a real badass in the last five years and he hopes Diego’s watching.) As an added bonus, the kitchen pantries still have food in them—almost all the ingredients to bake a cake and even some pasta that _should_ still be edible. He does a little victory dance when he finds canned tomato sauce too. _Score._

On the way back, he skirts the house and heads into the little village they briefly checked out earlier. He remembers seeing a bookstore, then, and hurriedly ushering Five away before he could spot it and demand they explore. And hey, not just because of the surprise—he _also_ didn’t want to deal with Five’s disappointment if nothing’s intact. Five’s a little shit but he’s also a cute kid and his disappointed face is _devastating._

Klaus breaks the glass on the front door and slips inside, shotgun raised even though it’s quiet. A quick check of the store reveals that it’s Infected-free, hallelujah. The shelves and counter are covered in a thick layer of dust—this place may not have been touched since the outbreak. Their science fiction section is pathetically small and most of them appear to be classics Five will have read already, but … oh, Margaret Atwood. She’s supposed to be good. He plucks the book off the shelf and flips through it, stopping when he gets to a section about a global pandemic. 

Ouch, a little too on the nose. 

He sets it back and keeps browsing, pausing when he finds a Stephen King book. Ben used to like Stephen King and his Five used to borrow books from Ben all the time. Oh … it features time travel. He laughs, shaking his head at the irony. Would this upset Five? The plot seems good … oh why the hell not? If Five hates it, they can come back and choose a different one. 

Satisfied, he sticks the book in his pack and darts into the stationary section to pick up a new notebook, some pens and pencils, and a sharpener. Perfect. 

When he creeps back into the house, Five is still sleeping peacefully on the couch—face buried in the cushions. This smooth of a victory probably means that something horrendous is going to happen to Klaus next week but oh well, he’ll deal with that hit when it comes. 

The next morning, he makes them both a cup of coffee and hands Five a protein bar for breakfast. He probably _shouldn’t_ be giving coffee to a fourteen-year-old but whatever, it’s an apocalypse and no one is actually here to judge his parenting skills. He’s doing better than Reggie, at least. 

“You’re being shifty,” Five announces, frowning at him over his mug. 

“I’m _always_ shifty, dear brother,” Klaus fires back. 

“No, you’re always _weird._ Now you’re _shifty._ You’re up to something.” 

Curse Five and his observation skills. 

“It’s a surprise. Eat your protein bar.” 

Five rolls his eyes but doesn’t push the issue any further—too busy grimacing over the protein bar. 

_ _ 

“A ski lodge?” Five asks dubiously that afternoon, stopping to frown up at it with the same expression he leveled at Klaus earlier. “Are you sure it’s safe? That’s a big building.” 

“I’m sure.” 

Five’s gaze shifts to him and narrows. “How do you know that?” 

He shrugs, aiming for casual but internally kicking himself. He used to be a much better liar than this, he’s sure of it. “Have you seen any Infected in this area at all? I think they must have been cleared out when a militia or some other group came through. Or there’s a QZ not too far, FEDRA might have cleaned them up.” 

“Okay,” Five says, though the suspicion doesn’t entirely leave his face. “Let’s check it out, then.” 

He unholsters his pistol and heads for the front doors, taking the same route Klaus did last night. (At least that must mean Klaus is teaching him well.) Klaus plays along with a sweep of the building, then insists on making a fire in the massive fireplace in the main lounge. 

“This place _is_ pretty nice,” Five acquiesces, spinning in a slow circle to take in the decorations and the vaulted ceiling with its rustic, wooden support beams. “Kinda reminds me of the Academy.” 

“No, please don’t make that comparison.” Klaus shudders. 

Five laughs under his breath and flops down one of the sofas. Klaus affectionately watches his sprawl out of the corner of his eye. It’s always nice when Five allows himself to act like the kid he is instead of the little soldier that the Old Man molded him into. 

“Okay, fire’s done,” he declares after another moment. “And actually, I have a surprise.” 

Five sits up. “I _knew_ you were up to something.” 

“Hey, it’s a good surprise! It just requires you to stay here until I call.” 

Five crosses his arms over his skinny chest but sighs his assent. “Fine, I’ll stay put. 

“Thank you, Mein Bruder. “ 

He leaves Five in the lounge and heads downstairs to the expansive kitchen. It takes a couple tries to get the generator working but eventually it rumbles to life and the lights flicker on and Klaus grins in triumph. He longs for some kind of music—has never focused as well without it—but he still hasn’t managed to find a replacement cassette player, even if he’s continued lugging his tapes around in hope. So he hums to himself as he sets a pot of water on the stove to boil and starts mixing ingredients for the cake, singing a strange mashup of the songs he can remember the lyrics to. 

He doesn’t have eggs or milk or butter _or_ a recipe to follow, but he’s very used to improvising when it comes to food. And when the cake comes out of the oven it looks a little sad but ultimately edible. He whips up some frosting with sugar and vanilla extract and _voila_! 

He’s a baking _god._

“Okay!” he shouts towards the lounge when he has the cake and two bowls of pasta artfully positioned on the massive dining room table. “Ready!” 

Five rounds the corner. “That took forever, what the hell were you—” He freezes, eyes blowing wide at the sight of the cake and the food. 

Klaus claps his hands together. “Happy birthday, Fivey!” 

“What?” Five says, a little strangled. 

“I’m declaring it October 1st! Since it’s now definitely autumn and there are no calendars anymore. So,” he waves to the table, “happy fourteenth birthday!” 

“Klaus … you didn’t have to do all this.” Five swallows. Looks like he’s not sure what to feel—shock and gratitude and embarrassment warring for control of his expressive face. “It’s not like Dad ever celebrated ours.” 

“Well that old windbag isn’t here and I figured we could use _something_ to celebrate. Besides, fourteen’s a very important age.” 

Five regains enough composure to arch a condescending eyebrow at him. “So’s thirty.” 

“Psh.” Klaus waves dismissively. “Age really doesn’t mean anything when you can’t die.” 

That gives Five pause. “Wait … _can_ you age?” 

Huh. He’s never thought about it before—it’s low on the list of his immediate concerns. “I guess we’ll find out. Now c’mon, the spaghetti’s getting cold.”

They devour two bowls of spaghetti and two slices of cake (which is delicious, has he mentioned he’s a _god?)_ each before retiring back to the lounge. 

“Wow,” Five mumbles, curling back up on the sofa, “I forgot what it’s like to eat that much.” A pang runs through Klaus but Five lifts a hand to point at him. “And don’t apologize. ‘S not your fault.” 

“You know me too well,” Klaus grumbles, but it’s good-natured. “ _And_ I have one more surprise.” 

“Oh great, me too.” 

Five scrambles up from the sofa and darts over to his pack while Klaus blinks after him. “Excuse-moi, _you_ have a surprise?” 

“Yep.” Five produces a terribly wrapped package from the depths of his pink backpack and passes it over with a smug but fond grin. “Happy birthday, Klaus.” 

Oh. 

Klaus blinks again, swallowing around the sudden lump lodged in the back of his throat. 

“Open it,” Five says, letting a hint of eagerness leak into his voice. 

“Ah-ah,” Klaus wags a finger at him. “This is a gift _exchange,_ Five-0. Close your eyes.” 

Five sighs, put-upon, but closes his eyes. Klaus unearths the books from his own pack and sets them gently in Five’s lap. “I didn’t have time to wrap them, but here you go.” 

Five looks down and his face actually lights up. “A new notebook, nice.” He runs his fingers over the leather cover, then sets it aside. “And … Stephen King?” 

“I don’t know if you’ve read anything by him, but Ben liked his stuff.” 

“11/22/63,” Five murmurs, flipping the book over to read the summary. “‘On November 22, 1963, three shots rang out in Dallas, President Kennedy died, and the world changed. What if you could change it back?’ Is this … a book about time travel?” 

“Maybe? But I didn’t get it as a joke! Even though it is a _little_ bit funny, you have to admit.” 

Five shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “It is,” he agrees. “And this looks good. Thank you.” He gestures to the package in Klaus’s lap. “Now open yours.” 

“I can’t believe you got me a gift,” Klaus mutters as he tears the wrapping paper. Inside is... “Holy shit. A _cassette player_? Where the hell did you find a _cassette player_?” 

Five adopts an innocent expression that doesn’t fool Klaus for a second. “Around.” 

“Five.” 

“There … might have been an electronics store in town.” 

“When … when did you go…? Wait, last night. Did you sneak into town last night?” 

The innocent expression vanishes. “Hey, you came up here last night.” 

“I can’t die, you _can!_ ” 

“You said it yourself, there weren’t any Infected around.” 

“But what if we _missed some?_ There were Infected _up here._ ” 

“What? There were?” 

“I handled them, and once again, _I can’t die._ ” 

“You technically can, you just come back, which means I could have found your body again!” 

“Well—” Klaus stops himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is pointless. We were both idiots in the name of a good birthday celebration. Truce?” 

Five deflates, sinking back on his heels. “Truce,” he agrees. 

“And thank you for the cassette player, it’s perfect.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

Klaus shuffles forward on his knees, opening his arms. “Come here, baby brother.” 

“Do we really have to hug?” Five asks with a grimace. 

“Yes.” 

He wraps his arms around Five and Five huffs in surrender, hugging him back. 

It’s an excellent birthday, all things considered. 

_ _ 

**WINTER**

“I’m sorry,” Five says for what has to be the thousandth time, slurred with exhaustion. 

“It’s not your fault,” Klaus insists, providing his half of this well-trodden exchange as he adjusts the blankets piled on top of Five’s shivering frame. Outside the cabin, snow falls in thick flurries, adding to the two-foot layer already on the ground. Once it finally stops, Klaus will have to go out hunting again. Fortunately, they’re well-stocked on canned goods and medical supplies, but it’s not enough to sustain them for the whole winter, especially since travel is going to be impossible. 

Five coughs and shifts, moaning faintly. Klaus puts a hand on his forehead for what also has to be the thousandth time, but no fever. He still flips the corner of the blankets up to check on Five’s splinted and bandaged leg. The break was clean and the puncture wounds not nearly as deep as they could have been. Klaus cleaned them thoroughly and stitched them well and they _shouldn’t_ get infected, but he’s not trusting the universe not to fuck with him. 

If he closes his eyes for too long, he can still hear Five’s scream and the _snap_ of the metal trap closing. Still see the blood splashed all over the snow and a trapper’s terrified face as Klaus pointed a gun at him. The man frantically insisted that he was hunting animals, not people, and only his offer to help extract Five kept Klaus from shooting him. The fucking monstronsity still broke Five’s leg and the serrated teeth tore gashes along his calf and ankle. 

_Should’ve seen it,_ he rasped as Klaus tried to stop the bleeding. _Sorry, should … have seen it._

So they’re grounded for the winter, holed up in this cabin that Klaus carried Five to with a blizzard on their heels. It’s been the only positive in this whole situation: blankets, a wood-burning stove, some canned food. Klaus still has to go on regular scavenging runs, barricading the door behind him and leaving Five with the shotgun, but they’re surviving. 

Fuck, they’re surviving. 

Five shivers again and Klaus decides there’s nothing he can do until it stops snowing. So he toes off his boots and climbs under the blankets, curling protectively around Five. 

“You’re gonna be okay, little brother,” he promises

Five’s eyes flutter open. “Course I am,” he mutters stubbornly. “Dealt with … worse.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

A nod. “Once … Dad threw me off the stairs. Trying to get me to jump. Didn’t manage it. Broke six ribs.” 

Jesus, fuck. 

“Shit, Five.” 

“I should've been able to do it,” Five mumbles. 

“ _No._ He shouldn’t have _thrown you at all.”_

“Was … training.” 

“It was _abuse,_ Fivey. And it was _wrong._ ” 

Five frowns, looking heartbreakingly confused. “It made me stronger.” 

Klaus takes a deep breath and presses his forehead to the top of Five’s head, squeezing him gently. “Maybe it did. But that doesn’t make it right, okay, buddy?” 

“...kay.” 

He’s not sure he’s really getting through to Five, but they can rehash this conversation later. For now he lets Five sleep as the snow continues to fall. 

_ _ 

Five heals slowly as winter drags on and on. Klaus fashions him crutches out of tree branches and he hobbles around the cabin during the day, cursing his stupid leg under his breath like the stubborn Hargreeves he is. Klaus teaches him to cook in order to distract him, then shows him some basic wood carving skills, and _then_ promises to teach him to hunt with a bow and arrow come springtime. But they still steadily go stir crazy, cooped up in a cabin together. 

Klaus can feel the tension simmering, hotter and hotter, and decides to cut it off at the knees. On his next scavenging run, he brings back several board games from a half-ravaged bookstore. 

“Okay,” he announces, spreading them out on the table. “We’re not allowed to yell at each other. Any aggression we need to work out, we work out through Uno. Or Sorry. Or Settlers of Catan. Or Monopoly.” 

“Fine,” Five agrees through gritted teeth. “Sit down so I can thrash you.” 

And thrash him Five does. The first Monopoly game takes nearly three days before Five wins with over half the board in his possession and an insufferable look of superiority on his face. Klaus declares a rematch via Uno and wins nine rounds of ten, evening the score. 

Five is a ruthless player and a bit of a sore loser, but it _does_ keep them from tearing each other’s throats out, so win. They don’t talk about the stairs or the trap in the woods or Reginald Hargreeves. Maybe they’re both cowards, when it comes to the past. 

Or maybe they’re haunted enough already—no need to dig up more bloody, sharp-clawed ghosts. 

_ _ 

“Have you ever thought about going west?” Five asks him one evening as wind rattles the shutters like it wants to be let inside. 

West. Allison. 

Klaus sighs. “Five, the chances….” 

“I know,” Five cuts him off. “I know, but … it’s not like we have anything better to do, right? We might as well.” 

“It’s a big country,” Klaus argues, but it’s a weak one. “We don’t know what’s out there.” 

"It can’t be worse than here.” 

Klaus swiftly raps his knuckles against the table twice. “Please don’t say that.” 

Five rolls his eyes. “Fine, but I still think we should go.” 

“I don’t know…” Klaus runs a hand through his hair, accidentally pulling a few strands loose from his bun. 

“C’mon, Klaus,” Five smiles, goading. The little shit. “Where’s your sense of adventure?” 

_SUCH a little shit_ , Klaus thinks with great affection. 

“Okay, _okay, fine._ We’ll go west, you terror. Once we’re no longer buried in snow and you can walk again.” 

“I can walk now…” 

_“Five.”_

“Fine. Agreed.” 

Klaus is almost certain he’s going to regret this, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

_ _ 

**SPRING**

The world _finally_ thaws and Five heals enough to travel. He still has a slight limp and grudgingly uses the walking stick Klaus insists he carry, but he looks healthy and far enough away from death’s doorstep that Klaus can breathe easy again. 

“I never want to see this cabin again,” he declares as they pack up for the final time. 

“Me neither,” Klaus agrees. He’s tempted to burn it, but he’s trying to be a responsible adult, these days. 

Speaking of. 

“But sit down for a minute.” He gestures to the kitchen table they’ve logged _way_ too many hours at. “We might as well do this here.” 

“Yeah,” Five agrees, hobbling over and sinking into one of the chairs, “it’s driving me crazy.” 

“Well, you _do_ look a little like a caveman. Minus a beard.” 

Five scowls, but he can’t refute the truth of that statement—not when his hair’s almost down to his shoulders now and sticking up in wild, unruly strands everywhere. Klaus has wanted to cut it for weeks, but couldn’t find the right tools. (All he carries on him is a straight razor and he definitely just cuts his hair with a knife when it gets too long but responsible adult, responsible adult.) Fortunately, the weather finally calmed down and allowed him to scavenge further out, which led to scoring an entire barber kit yesterday. 

He drapes one of the quilts from the bed around Five like a cloak. Five tilts his head back to frown warily up at him. “Are you sure you know how to cut hair?” 

“I know how to cut hair,” Klaus promises. “I used to do Diego and Vanya’s all the time.” 

Five contemplates this as Klaus wets his hair. “Is there anything you _don’t_ know how to do?” 

Klaus laughs. “My competence blows your mind, doesn’t it?” 

“Well considering _my_ Klaus spends most of his time getting high and dodging responsibility, yes.” 

“Hey.” He pokes Five in the back of the shoulder. “I told you to go easy on him.” 

“I know, I know,” Five grumbles. 

“But if you’re thinking it’s because I’m from a parallel universe or something, you’re wrong. _I_ was getting high and dodging responsibility right up until the world ended. Honestly, there’s nothing like a horrifying apocalypse to force vital life skills into you. I mean, look at everything you’ve picked up in the last year … holy shit, Five, you’ve been here almost a year.” 

“Yeah.” Five’s voice has dropped to a whisper and he’s staring hard at the opposite wall. Klaus thinks about his notebook full of calculations and his abandoned powers and bites his lip, wondering how much he should say. 

He turns this over in his head as he starts cutting. 

“Whatever you’re going to say, you should just spit it out,” Five says. 

Klaus pokes him again. “You need to stop reading me so well.” 

“I’m observant,” Five says with a shrug. 

“ _Too_ observant.” 

“And also right.” 

Ugh, of course Five isn’t going to let him artfully dodge this conversation. No one told him that having a little brother would be this _annoying._

“Do you still have your powers?” he asks bluntly, because that’s always been the way to go with Five. 

Five tenses immediately, which is really all the answer that he needs, but he keeps cutting and waits patiently for a verbal one. 

“Yes,” Five says at last. 

“Did the time travel damage them somehow?” 

“For awhile.” And no elaboration, of course. 

“But they’re fine now?” Klaus presses. Five’s still wound up like a springboard, but he keeps his head tilted to the side when Klaus moves it. 

“I … probably.” 

“So why haven’t you used them? Are you afraid?” 

“ _No_ ,” Five snaps. “I just haven’t seen the need to.” 

“Bullshit.” A third poke. “You used your powers more than any of us.” He pauses, thinking back to That Mission and then amends, “at least when we were kids.” 

“That was _your_ Five.” 

“And you’re _extremely_ similar to him.” 

A prickly pause that Klaus also waits out, pushing Five’s head forward to trim the hair at the back of his neck. 

“And if I _was_ afraid?” Five whispers. 

Oh god, this whole _giving advice_ thing involves so much pressure. 

“Well.” He starts on the top of Five’s head, gradually shaping his hair into a similar style to what he was sporting when he first arrived. “As someone who spent the majority of his life fucking _terrified_ of his powers, I understand.” 

“I’m sensing a but,” Five says tersely. 

“ _But,_ you can’t run from them forever, Fivey. That’s not healthy, either. Like it or not, these powers are a part of us. A part of who we are. We can’t just ignore them.” 

Oh but if the others could _see_ him now. He cannot believe that he’s imparting _actual life advice_ and that Five is _taking it seriously_ because it’s _good advice._ Who _is_ he? 

“I’ve been doing fine without them so far,” Five argues—stubborn, stubborn so _very_ stubborn. 

“And eventually, it will blow up in your face. Trust me.” 

Five lets out a sharp breath. “But what if I fuck up again? What if I end up somewhere _worse?_ ” 

“Worse than a monster-ridden apocalypse?” 

“Yes. I could … I could end up alone.” 

Ah yes. Okay, that _would_ be worse, Klaus can concede that point, but. “Isn’t time travel different from spatial jumping? Maybe you should just start small? Ease yourself into it, get a feel for it again.” 

“Maybe,” Five says without much conviction. 

Klaus sighs and squeezes his shoulder. “I won’t push you, I’m not Dad. Just … think about it.” 

“Okay.” Still in the same flat tone. 

Whelp, Klaus dispensed the Advice, fulfilled his role as elder brother. Five is more stubborn than an ox being made to pull a wagon across a river, he’ll come around if he wants to and Klaus doesn’t want to waste his time or risk breaking the wagon. 

(Okay, not his best metaphor.) 

He finishes cutting Five’s hair and ruffles it into place. It looks good, he decides. Actually _good_ and not Jesus apocalypse-chic like his own. Go him. 

“There you go, little brother,” he says. “Good as new.” 

Five adjusts the sweep of his bangs. “Thank you, Klaus,” he says softly, and Klaus knows he means for more than the haircut. 

“Anytime,” he replies with one final squeeze to Five’s shoulders. “Now let’s blow this boring and horrible popsicle stand.”

“Amen.” 

They collect their packs and leave the cabin without a backward glance, venturing out into the cool spring morning, where the trees in the forest are in violent bloom. 

_ _ 

**SUMMER**

Five’s limp is nearly gone by the time they reach the Gulf and they’re back in the grip of heat and scorching sun. Klaus doesn’t miss that stifling cabin and wading through heaps of snow all the time, but he’s definitely sick of his clothes sticking to him and the near-constant ache of thirst settled in the back of his throat. 

Still. 

“Can you believe we’ve made it all the way to Texas, Fivey?” he says as they venture into a quiet coastal neighborhood. To his left, beyond the roofs of the colorful houses, he can see glimmering ocean and the island of Galveston filling up the horizon. 

Five glares at him, but the effect is somewhat undercut by his pink backpack and dinosaur T-shirt, as well as Klaus’s long-cultivated immunity. 

“C’mon, show a little enthusiasm!” 

“I will when we find food,” Five mutters. 

Okay, point. They’ve been running on empty for two days and the hunger is starting to gnaw at the lining of Klaus’s stomach like a rabid dog. He doesn’t blame Five for being grumpy and hyper-focused. He spins to his right, trying to assess which houses look the least damaged and the most likely to still have supplies. 

“Klaus,” Five says suddenly, drawing his attention. 

When he turns back, Five is a few feet up the road, pointing to graffiti on the side of a house. It’s a skull, Klaus realizes as he approaches, with a snake coiled around it—mouth open to reveal its sharp fangs and drops of venom spilling. 

Delightful. 

“That doesn’t look like Fireflies,” Five says, hand drifting to his gun. 

“No, it’s not anything I recognize. But I have a standing policy for intimidating graffiti.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Get the hell out. Fast.” 

Five shakes his head. “We _need_ food, though. We’re completely out.” 

As if in support of Five, Klaus’s stomach growls low and furious. Traitor. “Fine. We check a couple houses and if they’re empty, we scram, okay? We can always see what the situation is in Houston.” 

“Okay,” Five agrees, grim-faced. 

They avoid the house with the graffiti and continue up the overgrown street. “How about that one?” Klaus points to a pale pink house on their left. “It matches your backpack.” 

A smile tugs at the corner of Five’s mouth and he starts for it. They break a window to get inside and fan out, checking every room. The house is free of Infected but also any supplies, fuck. 

“Okay,” Five says with barely-disguised frustration, as they exit and head across the street. “Let’s try door number two.” 

Door Number Two holds absolutely nothing, just barren shelves and a skeleton in the upstairs bedroom. 

“One more house,” Klaus decides because the Bad Feeling is mounting, prickling down his spine, and he’s learned to listen to it. “Then we go.” 

Five nods. They pick a house at the edge of a cul-de-sac and break in through the back door. Inside the rooms are full of dust particles and discarded toys and clothing but no food. Five kicks the side of the kitchen counter in a rare outburst, cracking the already rotting wood. 

“Fuck.” 

For once, Klaus doesn’t chide him on the language. He’d rather not get punched. “We should be able to reach Houston by nightfall,” he says. “There’ll be food there.” 

There has to be. 

He turns and heads for the back door, trusting Five will follow him. And maybe it’s the persistent hunger, or worry over Five, or too much focus on planning a mental route to Houston—whatever the reason, Klaus is distracted and doesn’t see the fist coming until it’s connected with the side of his face. He gasps and staggers as his assailant follows up the first attack with a knee to his gut. 

Shit. Shit, he _knew_ they should have cleared out. 

His ears are ringing and he struggles to get his bearings back. Fingers tangle in his hair, but before anything else can happen Five slams into the man and buries a knife to the hilt in his shoulder. A scream pierces the air. Someone else grabs Klaus—another man, wearing a tactical vest but definitely _not_ FEDRA. Klaus dodges the swing this but a _third_ person brought a bat to this fistfight and that bat hits his leg with enough force to knock him to the ground. 

He kicks out with his foot on the way down, catching Second Guy in the chest _hard_. There’s a satisfying _crack_ of bone and another shriek before the bat returns, this time to his stomach. Klaus groans and thrashes, rolling over enough to see past his two attackers to where Five has managed to fell his opponent with a well-placed blow to the back of the knee.

 _Go, Five,_ he thinks, dizzy. 

Of course that’s when a _fourth_ guy appears out of fucking nowhere and sweeps Five’s feet out from under him. Five hits the dirt on his back, wheezing. For a moment, a _second,_ blue energy sparks around his hands as Sunglasses raises the butt of his rifle. 

“No!” Klaus shouts, staggering to his feet. 

The rifle comes down with a terrible _crack_. Five goes still, the energy fades as quickly as it came. Sunglasses flips the rifle and points it casually at Five’s head. 

Klaus raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, I surrender see?” He drops back to one knee in the dried grass. “This is me surrendering. Don’t shoot him.” 

Bat and Tactical Vest wrench his arms behind his back and tie his hands with what feels like some kind of heavy cloth. Then Sunglasses steps forward with that blasted rifle. Klaus braces himself for the blow. 

Sunglasses hits him in the temple and stars burst across his vision. 

Then darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like, you can follow me on tumblr @wobblyspelling!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all your support on this fic so far, I've honestly been blown away <3 
> 
> **WARNING, PLEASE READ!**  
>  This is undoubtedly the darkest chapter in this fic, so please proceed with caution, folks and I’m sorry for all the angst. Content includes imprisonment, allusions to torture, violence, violence towards children, the execution and murder of children, mentions of suicide and suicidal ideation, and the sexual harassment and attempted grooming of a minor, as well as attempted coercion of a minor into an unwilling sexual relationship. 
> 
> I’ve also provided a summary in the end notes if you would like more detailed content warnings.
> 
> P.S. I listened to Run Boy Run on repeat when writing this chapter, especially the end of it.

_After the torchlight red on sweaty faces_

_After the frosty silence in the gardens_

_After the agony in stony places_

_The shouting and the crying_

_Prison and palace and reverberation_

_Of thunder of spring over distant mountains_

_He who was living is now dead_

_We who were living are now dying_

_With a little patience_

  
  


_ _ 

Five wakes to a raging headache and the first thing he does is roll over and dry heave into the dirt until his throat burns and his body shakes. 

“Easy,” an unfamiliar female voice says as he trails off into rasping coughs. A hand cautiously lands on his back, steadying him. “You took a nasty blow to the head, kid.” 

“Obviously,” Five croaks and presses his hands to the ground, pushing himself up until he’s on his knees. 

The room spins for a moment, then mercifully settles. He’s in some kind of cell—narrow and small with a dirt floor, a stone ceiling, and almost no light. Bars stretch across one wall—far enough apart that he could get his arm through them but nothing more—and the other one is made of the same rough stone as the ceiling. As he carefully turns his head, he realizes he’s in a cell _block_ with at least a dozen compartments, all full of occupants now staring at him. The cell next to his own is separated by another wall of bars and that’s where the hand came from. 

“Hey,” the woman says now. She’s pressed against the bars to reach through them and as Five blinks at her, she pulls back enough for him to get a look at her. 

Pale skin, dark hair that looks like it was roughly shorn and is shorter than his own, freckles scattered across her gaunt face, and brown eyes peering at him. She reminds him of Vanya and his chest aches, sudden and fierce. 

“Hi,” he rasps. 

“Good to see you awake,” the woman continues. She has a soft, soothing voice. “Though you might have been better off unconscious.” 

He doesn’t doubt that. 

“Where am I?” 

“Rattler base. On the coast.” 

Rattler. Ah, suddenly that graffiti makes a painful amount of sense. He should have listened to Klaus and—

Wait. Klaus. 

Five twists to glance around the rest of the cell, but he’s alone. “My brother.” 

“Probably being held somewhere else,” the woman says. “They separate families or people that were traveling together. To—” 

“Use us against each other,” Five surmises. It makes sense—what better collateral than the only person you have left in the world? 

Shit. 

“I’m sorry, kid.” The woman sounds sincere in her sympathy. 

Five sags back into a sitting position and it’s then that he notices the band fastened around his ankle, red light blinking. 

“A tracker.” He glances back up at the woman and the grim line of her mouth. “And it’s got a high electrical charge so don’t try messing with it.” 

“What sets it off?” Five can guess, but confirmation would be nice. 

“Stepping outside the programmed radius.” 

“Which is?” 

The woman shrugs. “It depends. Right now? The cell. If they’re using you for something, they’ll change it. Not sure how.” 

There are several things in that statement Five would like to address, but he keeps his focus on the tracker, carefully touching the black band pressing into his skin. It seems strangely sophisticated, especially if they can reprogram it at will. Military grade, maybe? Did this group, whoever they are, manage to raid FEDRA? They were also heavily armed, the ones who captured him and Klaus, and he counts at least fifty people in this dungeon. It’s not easy to keep that many captives. So probably a large, organized group with a lot of weapons that’s taken control of this stretch of the coast in the absence of FEDRA or any militias. 

Escape isn’t going to be easy. 

He feels a spark of panic trill down his spine, but it’s dissipated by the barking voice of Reginald Hargreeves. 

_Focus, Number Five! You must approach this strategically if you wish to survive, do not let your pointless emotions control you._

Right. Strategically. Logically. One step at a time and don’t let fear paralyze you, or the consequences will be dire. 

He blows out a long, steadying breath. His head is still pounding but he doesn’t have any other injuries, that’s good. He’ll take a silver lining, even if it’s only a sliver of one. 

“Hey,” the woman says again, drawing his attention back to her. “I’m Moira, by the way.” She sticks her hand through the bars. 

“Five,” he says and shakes it. 

“Five? Like the number?” 

“Yeah. Long story.” 

Moira shrugs. “Okay, then. I’d say it’s nice to meet you, Five, but... ” she waves to the cells around them with a grimace. 

Five sighs in wordless agreement, then switches topics. He needs more intel. “What do they use us for?” 

Moira settles into a more comfortable position in her cell and Five does the same, leaning against the bars for support. They’re cool against his overheated skin. 

“All kinds of things,” Moira says. “Labor, mostly. They’ve got some crops they’ve been trying to grow so they have prisoners work the fields. They make us help transport supplies to buyers they have set up. I’m pretty sure they’ve also got a drug operation running. But you’re a kid. They’ll use you for scavenging.” 

“Scavenging?” 

Moira nods. “I don't know the finer details but basically they send you into a building and you come out with supplies or pay the price for failing.” 

Five draws his knees to his chest. Again, it makes sense. Kids are smaller, better able to fit into tight spaces and harder, theoretically, for Infected to detect. His temple pulses and he closes his eyes against the persistent ache. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have a concussion, at least. 

“Look,” Moira continues, likely taking his silence for fear or despair, “just keep your head down, okay? Escaping is … well pretty much impossible.” She hesitates, then blows out a sharp breath. “And don’t … there are rumors ... about the leader of these assholes.” 

Five opens his eyes again. “Rumors?” 

“They—” 

A door opens at the end of the hallway and Moira snaps her mouth shut, swiftly pulling away from the bars to curl up in the middle of her cell. Five mimics her as heavy footsteps approach, closing his eyes again and trying to relax his face. Maybe, they’ll think he’s still unconscious. 

The footsteps stop outside his cell. A key is inserted into a lock with a click and a rattle and the door opens, creaking on slightly rusty hinges. Five subtly tries to brace himself, but the kick to his stomach still knocks all the air out of him. He gasps, eyes flying open, and hunches protectively—arms darting down to cover his middle as the guard laughs above him. 

“Yep,” he says to his companion, “brat’s awake.” 

_Fuck you,_ Five thinks, struggling to get his breathing back under control. 

Gloved fingers fist in his hair and haul him up to his knees. His vision swims again for a precarious moment before he gets his bearings. There’s a man in front of him that he vaguely recognizes from the ambush sporting a tactical vest over a dirty hawaiian shirt and silver hair cut close to his scalp. A sneer and a deep scar across his right cheek contort his features. In his mouth, gold teeth glint in the dim light of the dungeon. He looks like such a stereotypical villain—a carbon copy of the ones that used to feature in the crime shows Diego would secretly watch—that Five almost wants to laugh. The shotgun casually slung over Tactical’s shoulder deters him, though, and he clamps his mouth shut, wishing he could also see whoever still has an iron grip on his hair. 

“Alright, kid,” Tactical says, a faint Southern drawl lacing his words. “I’m only gonna explain this once so listen up.” 

He nods to his companion, who wrenches Five back again forcing his legs out in front of him as he tries to balance. Tactical then kicks the tracker on Five’s ankle with the toe of his combat boot. “This here’s a tracker, a real fancy one. You take one _step_ outside the approved radius and it’ll shock you with enough volts to stop a horse. Can’t imagine what that would do to a scrawny kid like you, so don’t try it. And if that ain’t enough incentive, you try to escape or disobey orders and your brother gets your punishment. I’m sure you wouldn’t want anything to happen to him, right?” 

Five remains silent and the other man gives him a rough shake in response. Deciding defiance isn’t worth another blow, Five grits out, “no.” 

Tactical nods, satisfied. “Of course. Family’s important, especially in these tryin’ times. So keep your head down like a good boy and it’ll keep him safe too.” He crouches down so he’s eye level with Five in an intimidation tactic so unsubtle that Five barely suppresses an eye roll. “You’ll get one meal a day. No sharin’ food with anyone else. No talkin’ to other prisoners. We’ll have a job for you soon so sit tight, understand?” 

“Yes.” 

A fist buries itself in his stomach. He gags from the force of it, feeling bile rush up his throat again. “Yes what?” 

_Motherfucker._

“Yes, sir,” he grits out and Tactical smiles. Pats his cheek. 

“Good boy.” 

The hand finally releases him and he sags back into the dirt, unable to stop his body from going limp. He closes his eyes, listening as Tactical and his friend retreat, as the door to his cell opens again and closes with a terrible _clang,_ as the footsteps continue down the hallway and the two assholes taunt the other prisoners—words muddy and distant to Five’s ringing ears. 

It’ll be okay, Five tries to reassure himself. He just needs to bid his time, play along and gather intel. Then he’ll break him and Klaus out of here and they’ll leave Texas behind for good. 

It’ll be okay. 

_ _ 

Life falls into a terrible routine. Every morning, Five and the other prisoners are woken at sunrise and ushered outside into the heat by guards bristling with shotguns and rifles and knives, who kick and shove them if they move too slow. Daily tasks vary. Sometimes, it’s sorting and categorizing salvage, sometimes tending fields of corn that don’t seem to be growing well in the climate, and often it’s loading shipments of goods and weapons and salvage that are apparently going to be smuggled up to the QZ in San Antonio. Once, he even spent an entire afternoon bagging up the marijuana that the Rattlers grow in a fancy barn, and for the first time in his life he was tempted to steal some. 

(He didn’t expect to understand his Klaus’s point of view when it comes to substances, it was unsettling.)

At sundown, they’re all kicked and shoved back inside the cell block—which Five has deduced used to be a wine cellar—and fed some kind of cold slop that was once vegetables or soup. Then, Five curls up in the dark and lets exhaustion drag him into fitful sleep until the process repeats the next morning. 

The only anomaly is the scavenging runs. So far, they’ve happened twice a week in a fairly regular pattern—every two days, sometimes every three, if Five’s count is accurate. The guards separate out him and the other children, ten in total, and pile them into the back of a truck. They’re driven into the outskirts of Houston, parked in front of an ominous building, outfitted with backpacks, and told to bring back anything valuable. Returning empty-handed results in a beating and no food. Returning _with_ supplies but past the deadline also results in a beating and no food. Returning with supplies but not enough to meet the quota _also_ results in a beating and no food. 

It’s a lovely system. Very close to the training regimen back home, which he’d rather not think about too much.

At least he’s good at it, probably thanks to that training regimen. He has a sharp eye and he’s skilled at moving without detection in hostile territory. Only twice has he failed so far and each time he endured the thrashing in stubborn silence, blindly hoping that they weren’t also punishing Klaus, whom he still hasn’t been able to find. 

Other kids aren’t so lucky. One boy gets mauled by an Infected on Five’s second run—his panicked screams echoing through the building and putting everything on high alert. Another gets bitten and Five watches with forced impassiveness as their captors shoot the sobbing girl in the head. It’s a mercy, he knows, and necessary, but he still nearly vomits up his dinner that night, haunted by the memory of blood and brain matter sprayed across the asphalt and unable to stop picturing Vanya or Allison in the girl’s place. 

Plenty of others simply fail and no one steps in to help them as they’re lashed with belts or kicked until they’re nearly unconscious. The Rattlers are careful not to damage any of them permanently—a lame horse can’t work, after all—but they also show little mercy, no matter how much a kid begs or cries. Five feels a twinge of sympathy for whoever has to take the daily punishment, but he’s not foolish enough to stick his own neck out. He doesn’t expect anyone else to step in and save him when he fails and no one should expect him to help them, either. He doesn’t care if he’s one of the oldest kids there—this is survival, and even in a gilded mansion it was ugly. 

Moira always looks at him with open sympathy when he returns from a scavenging run, especially if he’s sporting any injuries. Once or twice, she even slips some food to him when he’s supposed to go without. 

_You’re too compassionate,_ he wants to tell her but it’s nice that someone cares. 

“How long have you been here?” he asks her one night, keeping his voice to a hushed whisper. Talking without permission results in, you guessed it, a beating and no food. 

“I’m not sure,” Moira answers sadly. “At least six months, I think. It was spring, when I was captured.” 

“Were you alone?” 

“No.” Her jaw ticks and she shifts her weight. “But I am now.” 

“I’m sorry,” Five murmurs with genuine sorrow. He doesn’t ask her who she lost, he can see in the jagged lines of her face that she doesn’t want to talk about it—the wounds are too fresh. “Has anyone ever escaped?” 

“A few people. These trackers weren’t always here.” She waves at her ankle. “But usually they get hunted down before they make it very far. Either they’re dragged back to work or they’re made an example of.”

“An example.” 

“Tortured, purposefully Infected, or put out on the rocks.” 

He’s heard vague mentions of “the rocks,” but he still doesn’t know what it is. “I’m assuming that’s bad.” 

“Yeah, they tie you to a post out on the beach and leave you to starve to death. Or be picked apart by birds.” 

“Oh.” Wonderful. 

“Look,” Moira puts a hand through the bars, placing it gently on his arm. “You’re a smart kid, I can tell. Play your cards right and you might be able to join them. That’s the only way out of this I see. Besides dying.” 

“Didn’t you say it’d be better if I kept my head down?” 

Undefinable sadness consumes Moira’s features. “I did.” 

She squeezes his arm, a wordless apology, then retreats as the doors open and the nightly patrol starts their rounds. Five closes his eyes and tries to plan. 

_ _ 

He no longer has his notebook with him, so he starts keeping a running mental list of all the things he manages to learn: 

  * This “base of operations” actually used to be some kind of coastal estate, probably the pride and joy of some billionaire family. Five has counted several buildings, marking them on an internal map: 
    * the barn, for drug operations and weapons storage 
    * the winery, more weapons and supply storage, large basement/cellar used as a prison 
    * old airline hangar, now for ground transport and “mission” staging 
    * guest house, use unclear but potentially a command center and quarters 
    * _second_ guest house, possibly another prison block
    * main mansion, _definite_ command center and quarters—Five hasn’t been let within twenty yards of it
    * There’s more that he knows exists from chatter but hasn’t actually seen. He estimates the whole estate to be at least twenty acres, including the fields he’s often dragged to 



  * Rattler control extends at least to the outskirts of Houston. He’s not sure beyond that. Houston itself seems to have been overrun by Infected and abandoned by FEDRA, who established a QZ in San Antonio instead. He’s overheard a handful of conversations about plans for the Rattlers to push further into Houston and try to reclaim parts of the city, but those seem tenuous. 
    * _Note:_ they also seem very unpopular amongst the grunts, who are content to play gods of their small kingdom—at least until supplies inevitably run out.



  * They like to keep Infected chained up as playthings and guard dogs. Sometimes, Five can hear their shrieks and moans from his cell, keeping him up at night. He’s not sure if they’ve been captured from the city or if they’re recently turned prisoners or both. 
    * _Caveat:_ during his second or third week, patrols caught a man trying to escape. There had apparently been a rash of escape attempts recently, so they dragged all the prisoners out of their cells and made them watch as they threw the poor idiot into an empty swimming pool with a Clicker. The thing tore him to pieces, slowly and tortuously. Five ignored the spectacle and tried to spot Klaus among the captives on the other side of the pool but couldn’t find him.
    * Still, not how he wants to go out. 



  * Rattlers regularly dispatch “hunting parties” into the surrounding towns to chase down runaways or capture more unsuspecting travelers. The members of these “elite” units are _very_ proud to be in them and often boast about the amount of people they’ve brought in or killed. A few even make little patches for their vests like they’re some kind of fucked up boy scouts. The whole thing makes him internally roll his eyes, but he still tries to eavesdrop as much as possible for intel on patrol movements beyond the compound. 



  * The tracker can be disarmed, if he can find the right tools, but it’ll send an immediate alert to “command” who will show up to recapture or terminate him. So it will need to be done at the right moment and he’ll need to put a lot of distance between himself and the compound as fast as possible. 
    * _Complication:_ he’s not sure if he can jump with the tracker on or if the energy generated by his spatial jumps will set it off.
    * _Extra complication:_ he’s not sure if he can jump at all. The tear inside of him feels closed, but it weeps at the edges, as though his powers have been altered irreversibly. Here is not the place he wants to test them, but increasingly, he doesn’t see any means of escape without them.
    * _Additional extra complication:_ he can’t fucking find Klaus, where the fuck is he? 



_ _ 

The weather turns colder. Five can count his ribs beneath the fragile layer of his skin and at night, Dad’s voice taunts him for his failures, for getting himself trapped again. Little Number Five who thought he was _so_ smart, who thought he was _ready,_ now wasting away in a dank prison cell. What an inglorious end. 

And he’s always been stubborn, he knows that—not inclined to giving up, because it wasn’t something Dad tolerated—but now? It would be so easy, wouldn’t it? To just roll over and die. Klaus was alone before him and Klaus will probably continue to survive just fine without him, might even have it _easier_ if there’s not a stupid kid to look after. 

Is it so bad? To want something to be easy for once? 

(Five thinks his Klaus asked that question, in the middle of a fight over the drugs he was stashing in his room. He hadn’t understood it then, but now he wants to reach back through time and universes and sit with Klaus on his bedroom floor. Hold his shaking hands and say, _I get it, I finally get it, I’m sorry._ ) 

“Just hold on, kid,” Moira tells him, over and over, but then one day Moira doesn’t come back to the cells after work and Five learns that she managed to get a gun off a guard long enough to shoot herself in the head. So what does she know? 

(And if he cries that night, shocked by the depth of the grief inside of him at this near stranger’s death, that’s his secret to keep.)

He continues to excel at the scavenging runs, though, because he has _some_ pride left. And it’s almost cathartic to have his world narrowed down to a building and a time limit and dodging monsters while he searches for valuables. Inside, he doesn’t have to think about anything else—barely even has to think at all. There is no futile escape plan, no missing brother, no lost friends, just him and the mission and the goal. On those days, he lets himself drift once he’s taken back to the compound. Lies on the floor of his cell and feels nothing at all. He’s vapor, floating aimless on the ceiling, and nothing can drag him back to earth. 

Until one night, they throw someone else in his cell with him. Another kid—a tiny, wisp of a thing even smaller than him—who can’t be more than seven or eight years old. She has pale skin and red hair that’s been shaved closed to her head, like they tend to do to all new female arrivals. She scrambles into a corner as soon as the door shuts and peers at him with big green eyes. He’s tempted to just ignore her—it’s pointless to care about anyone in this hell—but the terror in her gaze refuses to let him. 

“Hi,” he says softly, sitting down a few feet from him and trying to make himself seem as non-threatening as possible. It probably helps that he’s not that much bigger than her. “I’m Five, what’s your name?” 

“Allison,” she whispers and it’s a shot to the gut. 

(Helplessly, he wonders if this is how Klaus feels: haunted all the time.)

“Hi, Allison,” he whispers and the name scrapes like gravel against the inside of his mouth. “We’re going to stick together, okay? I’ll look after you.” 

_Foolish, Number Five,_ Dad snaps in his head. He ignores the voice. For the first time in weeks, he has something to live for. 

God, he hates it. 

_ _ 

Allison becomes his shadow. He always makes sure they’re assigned the same building on scavenging runs and he keeps her close to him, filling up her backpack alongside his own. On work detail, the guards fortunately let her trail after him, helping him with whatever task he’s been given. He sneaks extra food onto her plate at night and lets her curl up against him for warmth. She doesn’t talk much, constant fear and past trauma making her almost mute, but he does learn that she’s originally from the Dallas area and she has a father and an older brother she was separated from. They were trying to make it to San Antonio and got lost, she doesn’t know if they’ve been captured too. In turn, Five tells her about Klaus and their year and a half of travel, trying to stick to more lighthearted stories. 

His plans begin to morph almost unconsciously. If he causes enough chaos in the compound as a distraction, he could look for Allison’s family. If her family isn’t there or dead, him and Klaus could take her the rest of the way to San Antonio. If they drop her off close enough to the QZ, surely a FEDRA patrol will pick her up. 

Either way, he can’t just leave her here.

He doesn’t tell her any of this, doesn’t want to get her hopes up or risk anyone overhearing. Instead, he tells her to keep her head down, just like Moira once advised him. But performing so well on scavenging runs was bound to have consequences eventually, and at last they show up in the form of a guard who comes for just the two of them and none of the other kids. 

“Got a special job,” he says as he shoves them into one of the trucks. “No questions.” 

Five hadn’t been planning on asking any. He lets the guard adjust his tracker in silence and holds Allison’s hand as they rumble out of the compound. Quickly he realizes that instead of heading towards Houston like usual, they’re going to the coast. A biting sea wind scratches against his exposed arms and cheeks and he can smell salt in the chilly air. 

“Why the sea?” Allison asks him under her breath, because she’s a sharp kid. 

“I don’t know,” he replies. 

“No talking,” the guard barks from the front and they both shut up until the truck parks on an empty stretch of beach. 

There are three more men waiting nearby, armed as usual. Five stares past them to the water. Or more specifically, the yacht floating a few yards from the shore. It looks battered, nearly turned on its side and partially submerged, but still mostly intact, and puzzle pieces instantly click together. 

“Alright, kid,” Five’s old friend Tactical says, taking a drag of his cigarette and blowing the smoke into Five’s face. Five stubbornly doesn’t cough. “Jacob’s got a little test for you.” 

Jacob, the leader of the Rattlers. Shit. 

Tactical predictably gestures to the yacht. “This washed up a few days ago. Hasn’t been checked yet. We want you to go in and see what you can find. You got two hours, then we expect you back here, understand? With supplies and a report.” 

“I understand,” Five says. 

Tactical backhands him hard enough to knock his head to the side. Allison squeaks in terror. “What was that now?” 

“I understand, _sir._ ” 

“Good.” He gives Five a shove towards the water and Allison scrambles after him like a petrified mouse. “Better start swimmin’.” 

Five pauses ankle deep in the surf and turns to Allison. “Can you swim?” 

A few months ago, he probably could have carried her on his back but he’s starved and weak. It’s going to be a struggle just to get himself out to the yacht. 

Fortunately, Allison nods. “I can.” 

“Okay.” Five adjusts his empty backpack, tightening the straps. “Let’s go. Stick close.” 

They wade into the water up to their knees, their waists, their chests, and then Five kicks off and starts to swim. The yacht looms above them like a metal beast, enormous and ominous. As they approach, telltale wails and shrieks echo, drifting out over the waves. 

“It sounds … like a lot of them,” Allison gasps, treading water hard. 

Five grits his teeth and keeps swimming, ignoring the heaviness of his limbs. It takes them several precious minutes to find a way inside. Eventually, he locates a hole in the hull big enough for them to fit through. They come up somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship and now the noise is nearly deafening. If this were a regular scavenging trip, Five would be tempted to go back and take the punishment, but failing a personal test from the Great Leader himself? That might end with their deaths. 

“Stick close,” he whispers to Allison. “We’ll try to do this fast.” 

With how much the ship is tilted, the door is nearly on the ceiling and Five has to scramble up using pipes and dials to haul himself through. He extends a hand back for Allison and they take a moment to catch their breath, shivering from the water and the wind still blowing through the ship. Then, they steadily make their way upward and the sounds grow louder and louder. 

Five pauses at the entry to what appears to be crew quarters, heart hammering in his chest at the hazy state of the hallway beyond the door. 

“Spores,” he whispers to Allison. “Masks.” 

They’re not given weapons, but the Rattlers don’t mind sparing gas masks. Five fits his over his face and checks to make sure Allison has done the same. The desire to turn around is growing stronger with every passing minute. Klaus always told him that spores were the worst possible thing to run into. Spores mean high levels of growth and advanced infection. Not to mention all it would take is one crack in your mask and… 

Allison squeezes his wrist, over his tattoo, and he rallies himself, shoving the fear somewhere deep. Fear is a hindrance, fear is pointless. 

“Come on.” 

It’s clear that this was once the prize possession of someone very rich, just like the estate the Rattlers have warped into a prison camp. Everywhere Five finds trappings of wealth: tattered silk curtains, glimmering chandeliers of mostly cracked or shattered crystal, large staterooms with expansive closets and bathrooms and some of the biggest beds he’s ever seen. 

And Infected. So many fucking Infected. 

He counts at least a dozen Stalkers, many of them still clothed in the rotting remnants of crew uniforms, six Clickers, and… 

“What is _that?_ ” Allison whispers as they huddle in the corner of what used to be the dining room. 

Five stares out at the _huge_ Infected lumbering around the open space. It’s the most disgusting thing he’s seen so far, bloated and deformed, with its entire upper half covered in bulbous pustules. The torso and head are oversized, enlarged by fungal growth, and its mouth has been forced open into an eternal roar, though two small, beady eyes remain just visible. Even if it can’t bite like other Infected, Five’s sure that it’s still perfectly capable of tearing them in half considering its sheer size. As it gets a little closer, Five sees noxious fumes rising from the pustules, suggesting they’re probably full of acid or something else equally unpleasant. 

_Fuck._

“Stage four,” he whispers back to Allison, a little hysterical. Oh when he tells Klaus about this….

“We should get out of here.” 

The closest door is to their left and above, now in the middle of a wall because of the tilt of the ship. A table has slid in that direction that might give them a boost … presuming they can get to it without alerting any of the nearby Infected. 

Five inches towards it, hugging the wall and scooting forward in slow, faltering steps. “You first,” he whispers to Allison when they finally reach it, and helps her onto the table. It wobbles dangerously, but doesn’t make too much noise. He watches, heart in his throat, as she clambers through the door. Just as she’s clearing it, her boot bangs against the wall, hitting a light fixture. It shatters, the sound echoing, and Five flashes back to his first day in the Apocalypse as all the Infected turn in their direction. 

_“RUN!”_ He yells to Allison and throws himself after her, adrenaline fueling him through the jump up to the door and into a sprint once he’s on the other side. 

He hears, rather than sees, the massive Infected _burst through the wall_ behind them. Its roar rattles the hallway and Five pushes his protesting body to move faster, faster, _come on._ They round a corner, the thing ripping apart the ship in their wake. Five frantically looks for a way out as a burst of acidic gas from the Infected floods the corridor, searing his arms. Fortunately, the Infected is also ripping into the ship enough that water has started to pour in, soothing the burns and slowing the monster down. 

But also slowing _them_ down as Five is soon sloshing through water up to his waist. 

“There!” Allison suddenly yells, pointing to an open window near the end of the hallway. 

“Go, go, go!” 

Another burst of gas. Five ducks to avoid it and grits his teeth against the pain of the burns. They’re climbing now, scrambling up towards the window and away from the clawing Infected and the water. Allison reaches the window and wiggles through. Five’s fingers close around the edge and then a hand grabs his ankle and pulls. He gasps, scrabbles to hold onto the window as the Infected tries to wrench him back. 

“Five!” Allison yells, fisting a hand in his shift in an attempt to get him up through the window. 

_I’m not dying like this,_ Five thinks furiously and twists, slamming the heel of his boot right into the Infected’s face. It shrieks, fungal growth crunches and breaks, and more gas spews, but it lets him go. Wheezing through his mask, he makes it out of the window. But it’s nearly impossible to get purchase on the slick side of the ship. He peers at the sea below them and then back inside to the recovering Infected and decides to gamble. 

“Let go!” He orders to Allison. 

She obeys immediately and they slide down the ship, faster and faster and faster until they’re flung out into open air. Time seems to slow for a moment before gravity takes over and they plummet toward the waves below. Training kicks in and Five rolls, reaching out to grab Allison and then shifting so that they hit the water feet first. The impact still rocks through him like an earthquake and he blacks out for a few precious seconds—his grip on Allison loosening. Then, water begins to seep through the gas mask, jolting him back to full awareness. He kicks his feet and wraps an arm around Allison’s waist, dragging her towards the surface. 

Bursting above water, he wrenches his gas mask off with his free hand and sucks in a frantic lungful of air. Against his chest, Allison struggles to do the same, trembling fingers scrabbling against the mask. He drops his own mask to help her and holds her as she coughs and gasps. 

“Are you … alright?” 

A nod. 

“Can you swim?” 

Another nod. 

Okay, they can do this. He paddles for the shore—slow and undignified, but at least he’s moving—and staggers onto dry land with jello legs that immediately give out underneath him. He collapses face first into the sand, panting and exhausted to his bones. His arms ache from the burns and the tracker beeps insistently on his ankle, reminding him of the mission he just failed. 

He feels like he’s back at the Academy, bracing for Dad’s wrath. 

Distantly, he registers approaching footsteps and braces for the kick that flips him over on his back. A boot presses to his throat, cutting off his air. Tactical glares down at him, cast in near silhouette by the afternoon sun. 

“Those backpacks don’t look full, kid,” he snaps. 

“Infected,” Five wheezes. 

The boot presses down harder and he chokes, reaches up on instinct to grab Tactical’s ankle. 

“Hey,” one of the other guards says, “let the kid talk, at least.” 

Tactical grudgingly eases up and Five coughs. “A _new_ Infected,” he amends. “Never seen it before.” 

“Yeah, right.” 

“I’m _serious._ ” Five glares up at him. “I can give you intel on it. That’s valuable, right?” 

Tactical clearly would prefer to just crush his windpipe but he sighs and steps back. “Fine, get up. We’re goin’ back to base.” 

With effort, Five forces himself to his feet. He sways dangerously, vision blurring, but Allison grabs his arm, steadying him enough to start walking. 

_ _ 

Back at the base, they’re thrown into their cell still dripping wet. 

“I can’t believe we survived that,” Allison says and Five shakes his head. He can’t either. 

_Jacob might still have us shot,_ he can’t help thinking but he keeps that to himself. 

He’s dozing off, propped up against the wall, when the cell door opens again and Tactical steps through. 

“Get up, brat,” he says with a kick to Five’s leg. “Jacob wants to see you.” 

Well, this is it. He’s glad that Allison hasn’t been called too. She might live through this if Five can make sure to shift all the blame onto himself. Or convince Jacob that the mission wasn’t a failure at all. 

He follows Tactical out of the cell block and all the way up to the mansion he hasn’t been allowed near. They pass through a checkpoint at the front door and into a grand entryway that reminds him uncomfortably of the Academy. The same ornate floor, same dark wooden paneling, similarly ridiculous decorations like antlers and portraits of strangers. 

“Keep movin’,” Tactical grunts, shoving him. Five suppresses an answering glare and stumbles up the steps to the second floor. 

They wind their way through twisting corridors and up one more flight of stairs. Five tries to keep a mental map in his head but he’s so tired that he becomes disoriented easily. Most of the rooms seem to be Rattler quarters, with a few for food storage, and one that looks like a command center of some kind. Five gets a glimpse of a large map of Houston and an elaborate radio setup before he’s dragged away. 

At last, Tactical pauses in front of a pair of double doors. They have some kind of vines carved on them, coiling across the wood and stretching up to the edge of the frame as though they’re trying to escape. Five can relate. 

Tactical raps on the door and a deep voice grants them entry. 

Inside a tall man, who must be Jacob, stands looking out a set of towering windows. Five takes in the fatigues, the gun strapped to his hip, and the military rigidness of his spine, then glances around the room: large bed, table with documents spread across it, radio, armchair with a stack of books next to it, a fucking fireplace… 

He wonders if he’s stepped into a dream. 

“I brought the kid,” Tactical says. 

Jacob doesn’t turn around, just waves a dismissive hand. “You can go, then.” 

He, too, has a faint drawl—not as pronounced as Tactical’s. Tactical glares at him and at Five, as if this is somehow Five’s fault, but obediently slinks from the room like the whipped dog he undoubtedly is. Only once the door has clicked shut does Jacob spin to face Five. He looks to be in his late forties or early fifties, with a well-trimmed beard and short salt-and-pepper hair. When he smiles, it’s charming and friendly, pronouncing the crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. 

Five stiffens. Anyone “friendly” in this world immediately sets off alarm bells in his head. 

“Welcome, Five.” Jacob says brightly. “It’s so good to finally meet face to face. I’ve been hearing a lot about you.” 

Five forces a smile. “Good things, I hope.” 

“Very good things.” The smile slips from Jacob’s face as his gaze lingers on Five’s damp clothes and the burns still visible on his arms. “But before we talk, let’s get you cleaned up first, hm?” 

He turns to his closet and rummages for a moment before he pulls out a flannel shirt and a new pair of jeans, both in what seem close to Five’s size. The alarm bells get louder, echoing down his spine. They turn into air raid claxons when Jacob then goes to the dresser and retrieves a pair of underwear. 

In a dark cell months ago, Moira warns him to keep his head down, leans in close to whisper about the rumors that swirl around the leader of the Rattlers… 

“Here you go,” Jacob says brightly, depositing the clothes in Five’s arms. “Get changed and then we’ll see to those arms and talk about this Infected you saw.” 

Mercifully, he puts his back to Five, going over to stand near the table. Five still changes faster than he thinks he ever has, keeping a wary eye on Jacob in case he revokes the meager privacy he’s providing. 

“Okay,” he murmurs when he’s fully dressed again, hating how unsteady and weak his voice sounds. He’s not some scared fucking _kid._ He can handle this. 

“Ah, much better,” Jacob says, that awful smile returning. “Have a seat and put your arms on the table.” 

Five does as he’s told, watching Jacob fetch a first aid kit from the en suite bathroom and pull up a chair next to him. He manages not to flinch when Jacob takes his arm and shifts it to inspect the burns. 

“These look like … acid burns?” 

“Yeah.” Oh good, his voice has stabilized. “They’re from the Infected.” 

Jacob arches a surprised eyebrow. “Really?” 

Five nods. Jacob begins to wash his arm with a wet cloth. “It was bigger than anything I’ve ever seen,” Five continues, flat and emotionless. He’s going to treat this like he’s giving a mission report back at the Academy—factual and efficient. “I think it’s another stage of infection. The fungal growth morphed its body, made it seem bloated and oversized, and it had pustules growing all over its shoulders and back, that’s where the acid came from.” 

Jacob whistles as he wraps bandages around Five’s arms. “Well shit. Great to know they can get worse.” 

“I can draw it for you,” Five offers. Better to make himself useful, valuable, even if… 

He shuts down that train of thought. He doesn’t know if Jacob is going to do anything … yet. 

“That would be good,” Jacob agrees amicably. He ties off the bandages. “I’ll get you some paper and a pencil. And some food. You’ve earned it.” He pats Five on the cheek and then lingers, his thumb brushing over the bone. Five swallows back a rush of bile and keeps himself still. If he wins Jacob’s favor that might grant him more freedom, or even the chance to finally see Klaus. 

Jacob stands and disappears out into the hall. Five blows out a stuttering breath, putting his head in his hands. His cheek burns almost as much as his arms. 

Jacob returns too soon, but he’s carrying a sketchbook and a plate of food. _Actual_ food that makes Five’s mouth water. He stares, a little wide-eyed, as it's set in front of him. There’s meat and vegetables and bread. His fingers twitch in his lap, but he holds himself back. He still has some dignity left and he won’t eat like a maniac when Jacob’s staring at him with open amusement. 

“Here,” he says, also putting down the sketchbook. “Sketch it for me and write down anything else you remember. And eat up. Don’t want it to go cold.” 

Jacob resumes his seat and lights a cigarette as Five starts to draw. He uses the activity to pace himself, taking short breaks to eat before going back to his sketch. He’s grateful, not for the first time, for his photographic memory. It’s easy to recall the details of the creature on the ship: it’s small eyes, misshapen torso, the dozens of pustules scattered across its body. Eventually, the food is gone and the drawing is finished. Five slides the sketchbook across the table to Jacob. 

“Wow,” Jacob says. “Ugly fucker.” 

“It broke through a wall like it was paper,” Five says. “It’s a strong fucker too.” 

Jacob shakes his head and closes the book. “I’ll let my men know. Anything on the ship seem worth dealing with this for?” 

“Not that I could see.” 

“Hmm.” Jacob stubs out his cigarette. “Thanks for the intel, Fivey.” 

_Don’t call me that,_ Five almost snaps, forcing the words back just before they can escape. He still feels sick, wrong, hearing Klaus’s nickname for him from Jacob’s mouth. 

“This was very helpful,” Jacob continues, standing up. Five rises as well. “I like you. You seem like a smart kid. We’ll be in touch.” He touches Five’s hair, smoothing it back from his forehead, and Five’s skin crawls. 

“I’m looking forward to it,” Five says with another insincere, jagged smile.

_ _ 

Back in his cell, Allison presses against his side as soon as the guards disappear. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” he assures her. He wonders, suddenly, how many times Klaus has lied to him over the last year and a half in an effort to protect him. 

Allison looks like she doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t press the issue. Five reaches under his shirt and pulls out the napkin-wrapped biscuit he managed to hide when Jacob wasn’t paying attention. 

“Here,” he says, handing it to Allison. “Good job today.” 

She beams at him, delighted by the present and the praise. His chest pulls tight, an ache he can’t define. 

_ _ 

Jacob calls him back the next day and greets him with the same disarming smile. 

“Do you play chess, Five?” he asks, gesturing to the board now set up on the table. 

"Once or twice,” Five replies, reluctantly taking a seat. 

Dad taught them all the basics, and Five probably took to it more than anyone. Well, him and Ben and Allison. They used to stay up late sometimes, playing with a flashlight to avoid being found out by Grace. The memory tastes bitter now, watching Jacob grin and sit down across from him. 

“Figured you might. Being a smart kid and all.” He winks. Five smiles. 

They play and Five tries to focus on the game as Jacob talks to him. He learns that Jacob is ex-military (no surprise) and established the Rattlers two years ago.

“Were you FEDRA?” he asks without looking up from the board. 

Jacob laughs. “I was. But I had some disagreements with how they were running things.” 

“So you defected?” He keeps his tone curious instead of accusatory. 

“I’d like to call it a tactical move,” Jacob says with wry amusement. “And it was a smart one. They lost the city six months later. Had to run to San Antonio with their tail between their legs.” 

“And you set up a nice little operation in the vacuum.” He’s unable to stop the bite from coming through this time, but Jacob just looks at him like he’s a cute puppy—all bark and no teeth. 

_I snapped a man’s neck once,_ he wants to say. _I was twelve._

“I did,” Jacob says. “And you have to admit it runs well, doesn’t it? We’re even providing supplies for the QZ.” 

“I can appreciate the efficiency,” Five agrees and carefully doesn’t think of the despair on Moira’s face the last time he saw her alive, or what might have been happening to Klaus for the last few months. 

Jacob gives him a pleased smile and they keep playing. Five learns that he _is_ making plans to expand further into Houston, and to start recruiting from the San Antonio QZ; that a lot of the Rattlers are FEDRA defects; that he tilts his head slightly to the left when contemplating his next move; that he favors bold strategies and doesn’t care about collateral damage. 

“Checkmate,” Five says a few hours later and Jacob laughs, loud and bright. 

“Well damn, kid.” 

He leans over and puts his hand on Five’s leg, digging his fingers into Five’s skinny thigh. Once again, Five fights down the instinct to fight or flee and musters a smile. “Do I win anything?” 

The hand slides up another inch. Five’s fingers tremble on the table and he curls them into a fist to hide it. 

“How about dinner?” Jacob says and his grin turns sharp, a shark scenting blood in the water—all teeth. 

“I could eat,” Five agrees. 

_ _ 

“I’m fine,” Five says to Allison that night as he passes over another biscuit and a little bit of meat. “I promise.” 

He has a feeling she can see right through him. 

_ _ 

Jacob calls him back and back and back. He asks him to sketch again, this time whatever he wants. He gives him new clothes from the fucked up supply in his closet and offers him the use of his private shower, which Five is too desperate to turn down after months of being sprayed with cold water once a week to “clean him up.” And Jacob touches him: his cheek, his shoulder, his hair, his leg, and once his side, curling around his ribs. He changes his bandages and his hands always linger, tracing patterns on Five’s skin. 

One night, he takes a drag of his ever-present cigarette and asks, “how old are you, Five?”

“Fifteen,” Five answers, because he figures they’re probably well into October. And maybe fifteen will be too old for this sick bastard.

The delight in Jacob’s eyes tells him he’s wrong. 

“Wow, practically a man!” He leans over and pats Five’s cheek. His fingers brush the corner of Five’s mouth as he retreats and Five longs for a weapon. “You know, we should put some hair on your chest.” 

He crosses over to a small fridge in one corner of the room and pulls out two bottles of beer, one of which he hands to Five. “Come on,” he says in response to the grimace Five doesn’t manage to keep off his face. “Drink up. You’ll like it.” 

Five doubts that, but he doesn’t see a way out of this. He opens the bottle—the edges of the cap digging into his palm—and takes a sip. It’s disgusting, stale and bitter on his tongue, but he keeps drinking. Jacob watches him, radiating approval as he takes a swig from his own bottle. 

“Good, right?” 

“Good,” Five agrees. 

Jacob makes him finish the whole bottle and then a second one. By the end, Five is tispy and the room has taken on an unsteady, fuzzy tinge. His limbs don’t seem to be working right, either. He can’t coordinate them the way he wants to and his thoughts keep skittering away from him like frightened ants. 

But beneath all that is a nice layer of numbness and for once he doesn’t have to grind his instincts to a pulp when Jacob touches him, running a hand through his hair. 

“Okay, I think you’ve had enough,” he says like he’s not the one that made Five drink so much. “Look at you. So cute, Fivey.” 

“Don’t,” Five starts, normal filter gone, but Jacob’s hand slides down the side of his neck, caressing and proprietary. 

“Shhh.” He murmurs. His face is too close to Five’s. “You can sleep here tonight, okay? And we’ll talk about some things in the morning.” 

His hand moves again, this time lifting Five’s shirt to pet over the bare skin of his stomach. Five can’t suppress a shudder, an unconscious noise of protest spilling out. Jacob shushes him again. “It’s okay. I’m a gentleman, kid. Nothing happens tonight when you’re drunk. Get some sleep.” 

He ushers Five in the direction of the bed and takes his boots off. And then reaches for the button of his jeans. Five stares at the rippling ceiling above his head and thinks _Klaus,_ which is stupid. He’s not a helpless child who needs his older brother to save him. 

He lets Jacob take off his pants and then slumps into the bed. Mercifully, he passes out as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

And wakes to sunlight in his face and a dull headache. 

“You know,” Jacob says, “you’re adorable when you sleep.” 

He jerks, eyes darting around the room until he locates Jacob lounging in the armchair. However, there’s an indentation in the bed next to him, suggesting that Jacob slept there last night. The thought makes Five want to vomit more than the hangover. Keeping the blanket around his waist, he leans down and retrieves his jeans from the floor. Jacob watches him dress, a predator assessing its prey. 

“You wanted to talk about something?” Five asks once he’s fully clothed, boots and all. 

Jacob blows out a long plume of smoke. “I like you, Five,” he says, playful. “You’re smart and I bet you’ve got a ruthless streak in you. You’d make a good member of my team.” His eyes flick to the bed, then slide down Five’s body. “And maybe more than that.” 

_Definitely_ more than that. Five swallows. “And what do I get?” 

Jacob arches an eyebrow. “A roof over your head. Protection. Food. That’s a lot, these days.” 

“What about my brother?” 

Another stream of smoke. “I’m sure something can be arranged for him too. We’re always looking for good new recruits.” 

“I want to see him.” 

“Only if you agree.” 

Five swallows again. His hands are shaking just like they did last night. He thinks about letting Jacob touch him as much as he wants, letting Jacob touch him _more,_ in intimate places, and he wants to scream or cry or fling himself off the roof. But _Klaus._ Shouldn’t he be willing to do anything for Klaus? Even things Klaus would undoubtedly _not_ want him to do? 

“Well, kid?” 

“Can I think about it?” he blurts out. “Please, just for a few hours. I can give you an answer tonight.” 

He needs to _think._ Somewhere that isn’t this oppressive room. 

Jacob’s features harden. “You know, Five, refusals have consequences.” 

“I know,” Five whispers. “Please.” 

Jacob sighs and stands. “I guess a few hours won’t hurt.” He closes the distance between them and cups Five’s jaw, running a thumb over his lips. “But I expect an answer tonight.” 

“You’ll have it,” Five promises. 

Jacob nods. Releases him. Five takes a shaky breath as Jacob crosses to the door and summons one of his nearby soldiers. He whispers something in the man’s ear, gesturing to Five. The man nods and turns away to talk into his radio. Five tunes him out, focusing on not hyperventilating and seeming weaker than he already does. He should have a better way out than this by now, a better plan than accepting Jacob’s twisted offer. 

_Such a failure, Number Five._

“Alright,” Jacob says, dragging him away from his panicky thoughts. “I’ll see you tonight, kid.” 

Five nods numbly and stumbles after the Rattler grunt, weathering Jacob’s squeeze of his shoulder before he goes. 

He’s expecting to be taken back to his cell but instead the guard leads him away from the main compound, towards a courtyard on the mansion’s immediate grounds. Dread begins to gnaw at the lining of his stomach. 

“Where are we going?” he asks and gets a smack to the side of the head in response. 

They step further into the courtyard and all the air dries up in Five’s lungs because there is Allison, kneeling on the ground with her hands tied and Tactical standing over her, pointing a gun at her head. 

“No,” Five breathes in horror. The guard escorting him wraps an arm around him, holding him still. 

Allison is weeping softly, hunched in on herself. Her red hair gleams in the morning sun and she seems so _small_ like this. 

“Let her go,” Five demands, though it comes out as a plea. He thought that Jacob would go after Klaus if he hesitated or refused, not Allison. But _of course_ he’s made it no secret how much he cares about her too. 

So stupid, Number Five. So, so _stupid._

“Nah,” Tactical says. “I’ve got a message for you. From Jacob. He said to remember that refusals have consequences.” 

“I’ll join him,” Five says frantically. “He can do whatever he wants, just please let her go. _Please.”_

Tactical cocks the pistol. Five starts to fight the guard, but he’s too weak, too fucking _weak,_ and the man easily subdues him.

“No,” he half-gasps, half-shouts. “ _NO!”_

Tactical fires. Allison tips forward into the dirt with a spray of blood and Five feels something crack inside of him—a fault line running right through his epicenter that he knows will never mend. Time slows, unspools, and as the fissure widens and widens Five pitches forward and _jumps._ He’s not even conscious of it. One moment he’s shaking in the first guard’s grip and the next he’s across the courtyard burying the knife from Tactical’s belt deep into Tactical’s neck. 

Tactical gurgles, choking on his own blood, the other guard shouts in alarm, and Five’s tracker sparks in warning. Instead of giving it time to go off, Five jumps again, back across the courtyard, and slits the second guard’s throat. He joins Tactical and Allison in the bloody dirt. Five grabs his gun and shoots the tracker. It fizzles, sending a weak jolt up Five’s leg before dying. 

The fault line is still yawning, bubbling with lava. All thoughts of escape fall away, swallowed by the _fury_ setting every nerve on fire. They’re going to fucking _burn._

Every. Last. One. Of. Them. 

He wrenches a machete from the guard’s belt and jumps again. He has a vague path in his head that starts with the stockpile of weapons. He kills everyone inside the barn within minutes, stabbing and slashing and shooting like a vicious maelstrom of violence. Jumping has never been this easy, this _instinctive,_ but he doesn’t pause to think about it—his world consists solely of chaos and blood and death, the next target and the next and the next until none are left. He sets the barn on fire in his wake and keeps going, to the cells next.

The man and woman on duty die from an axe to the face and Five stops long enough to yank the keys from one of their belts and toss the ring into the closest cell. 

“Get everyone out,” he says to the shell-shocked woman inside. “I’ll disable the trackers.” 

An alarm has started to blare across the compound. Five laughs at the uselessness of it. Let them _try_ to shoot him. None of them even see him coming. 

He blinks into the mansion and continues his chain of destruction. Blood splatters the ornate halls, severed limbs litter the floors, and screams echo like a symphony. He pauses in the command center to smash the equipment controlling the trackers and then jumps all the way to the top level and into Jacob’s quarters, past the pointless barricade he’s erected. 

Jacob lets out a shocked yell when Five appears in the middle of the room, soaked in red and still clutching the axe he swapped the machete for at the barn. 

“Hi, Jacob,” he says, low and dangerous. 

“What the fuck _are_ you?” Jacob gasps, staggering backwards and reaching for his gun. 

Five is faster—Five is _always_ faster—and he flashes forward, grabbing Jacob’s hand and snapping his wrist with trained precision and adrenaline-fueled strength. “Haven’t you heard?” he says as Jacob shrieks, dropping to his knees. “I’m the four _fucking_ horsemen. The apocalypse is here.” 

He plants a boot in Jacob’s chest and kicks him backwards. “Now, tell me where he is.” 

“H-he?” Jacob stammers, staring up at him with wide eyes. 

Five sneers. “My brother, you idiot. _Where. Is. He?”_

Jacob shakes his head, gasping. Five picks up the corkscrew he spots on the table and stabs Jacob’s thigh, twisting it deep. Jacob screams and it’s the most satisfying sound Five’s ever heard. “I can do this all day, Jacob,” he says. “Tell me where he is.” 

A pause. Five wrenches the corkscrew out with a gush of blood and stabs it in again. 

“The rocks!” Jacob shouts. “He tried to escape, weeks ago. So I put him out on the rocks. He’s dead.” 

Five laughs—a bleak, terrible thing. “That’s very unfortunate for you, Jacob. That’s two people you’ve killed that I loved.” He leaves the corkscrew buried in Jacob’s thigh and stands, taking Jacob’s pistol with him. “So you’re gonna die _slow._ Enjoy watching your empire burn as you bleed to death.” 

“You’re … a monster,” Jacob gasps. 

“Well,” Five smiles, full of blood. “That makes two of us, doesn’t it?” 

And he shoots Jacob in the groin. Jacob screams again, writhing. Five watches his agony for a moment, reveling in it, before he shoots him again in the stomach. 

He leaves Jacob wheezing on the floor and jumps back downstairs—Jacob’s lighter clutched in his hand. It’s easy to locate gasoline in the kitchens and he liberally douses the foyer with it before he clicks on the lighter and tosses it onto a nearby table. Flames erupt and spread rapidly, crawling across the floor and up the walls towards the ceilings. 

Outside, no one tries to stop him as he runs towards the beach. He’s not even sure anyone is _alive_ to stop him and he doesn’t care. He has to get to Klaus. 

A storm is rolling in and wind whips against his skin and clothes as he scrambles down the winding path to the beach. When he rounds the final bend, he freezes at the sight in front of him: the rocky beach is covered in tall wooden pillars driven into the sand. And suspended from them are bodies in various stages of rot and decay. The Rattlers weren’t just leaving prisoners to starve, they were _crucifying_ them. 

“Klaus,” Five breathes in horror and tumbles into a sprint again, checking pillar after pillar. Thunder rumbles ominously overhead and the incoming tide laps at his ankles as he moves. So many bodies, but none of them are his brother. Could Jacob have lied to him? 

_“_ Klaus! _KLAUS!”_

And then he sees it: a flash of neon. He spins and jumps over to the pillar, nearly crashing against it in his haste. The man tied to it is so thin he’s nearly skeletal and his hair has been cut short, but it’s undoubtedly Klaus. He’s barefoot and his exposed skin is cracked and weathered from the elements—the bright t-shirt he’s wearing reduced to little more than rags. Five fumbles with the rope, hands shaking. It comes free after a few desperate moments and Klaus pitches off the pillar into the sand. 

“Klaus,” Five hiccups, crashing to his knees next to him. Air wheezes slow but steady out of Klaus’s mouth—alive, he’s alive, but how many times has he died out here?—and his eyes flicker open, squinting.

“F-Five?” he rasps. 

“I’m here,” Five replies. “I’ve got you.” 

He takes Klaus’s hand in his own and closes his eyes. He’s never attempted this big of a jump with another person before, but once again it comes easier than expected. One moment they’re on the beach and the next they’re in the hangar back at the compound—the air around them acrid from smoke. Coughing, Five hauls Klaus upright and half carries, half drags him to the closest truck. Distant screams pierce the air as he blinks them into the cab of the truck. 

Looks like some of the Rattlers managed to survive. 

Pity. 

Five reaches into the glove compartment and retrieves the keys from the same place he always saw the guards hide them. Klaus has slumped sideways against the passenger window, worryingly unconscious again. Five wills him to hold on, they’re so fucking close. 

He sticks the key in the ignition and the truck roars to life. He’s never driven before—Klaus promised to teach him if they ever found a car they could use—but he’s pretty sure he can figure it out. He puts the gear shift in drive, hauls the seat all the way forward so that he can reach the pedals, and takes a steadying breath before pressing his foot down on the gas. The blood coating his hands slicks the steering wheel, making it hard to turn, but Five manages and the truck lurches out of the hangar and down the road. 

In the rearview mirror, the sky opens up over a gray ocean and the Rattler compound burns, a brilliant orange beacon in the dark afternoon. Allison’s body is back there, he didn’t have time to retrieve it. He’ll have to make her a grave somewhere else. 

His breath hitches and he tightens his fingers on the steering wheel until he can feel the leather digging into his skin. He should have been able to save her, should have gotten to Klaus sooner, should have fucking tried to jump again before all this. He remains such a _failure._ Little Number Five, useless beneath his veneer of arrogance, doomed to cause suffering wherever he goes. 

Inside of him, the lava fissure has cooled to smoldering, vast emptiness—a chasm carved so deep, he doubts he’ll ever be whole. 

The first drops of rain hit the windshield and then a torrent, drumming loud against the glass. Five numbly flicks on the wipers and keeps driving, trying to put as much distance between himself and the Rattlers as possible. He has a full tank of gas. He’ll drive until he can breathe again. He’ll drive until his hands stop shaking. He’ll drive until the angry snarl of his thoughts stops. 

Then, he’ll wash off all this blood and he’ll get Klaus back to full health and he’ll carry on. 

It’s all he knows how to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CHAPTER SUMMARY**  
>  Five is captured by a group of bandits called the Rattlers and separated from Klaus. He and other children are made to go on scavenging runs for supplies. If they fail, they are punished through physical violence and withholding food. There is mention of a boy who is killed by Infected on a run and a girl who is shot after being bitten. While imprisoned, Five first makes a friend in Moira, who occupies the cell next to his. 
> 
> She tries to be supportive and encouraging but eventually despair wins and Five learns that she committed suicide. This leads to suicidal ideation from Five, who is starting to give up hope. However, he is given a cell mate: a young girl who shares the same name as his sister. Allison. She becomes his reason to live and he starts looking after her. 
> 
> His skill at scavenging runs eventually attracts the attention of the Rattlers’ leader, Jacob. After testing him on a particularly dangerous run, Jacob starts to take personal interest in Five. It is clear very early on that his intentions are not good. He invites Five to his quarters numerous times and touches him a lot on his face, arms, legs and stomach. Five is aware of his intentions and struggling to figure out what to do about them. 
> 
> One night, Jacob gets Five drunk, undresses him (down to a shirt and underwear), and sleeps next to him in bed. The next morning, he makes Five an offer: join the Rattlers (and it is heavily implied that he also enter a sexual relationship with Jacob) and Five might get the chance to see Klaus and be protected, rather than wasting away in a cell. 
> 
> Five asks for some time to think about this. Jacob warns him that refusing has consequences but agrees to give him a few hours. However, instead of taking him back to his cell, the guards escort him to a courtyard where they’ve also brought Allison. They convey a message from Jacob: refusals have consequences. Five pleads for Allison’s life, but the Rattlers’ execute her. Watching her death breaks something in Five and he goes feral, finally using his powers again and unleashing a maelstrom of violence on the compound. 
> 
> He kills his way up to Jacob and tortures Jacob for information on Klaus, learning that Klaus was sent to “the rocks” some time ago. Five makes his way down to the beach and learns that “the rocks” are actually pillars on which people have been crucified. He finds Klaus barely alive and escapes the compound in a stolen truck, with Klaus unconscious in the passenger seat. 
> 
> _________________ 
> 
> If you so desire, come find me on tumblr @wobblyspelling. I understand any yelling you want to direct towards me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your support for this story so far! It's what has kept me writing and I hope you enjoy this chapter. Time to deal with (most) everything that went down in chapter 4. 
> 
> Like always, opening quote is from The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot. 
> 
> P.S. updates are going to be a little slow as I'm going to pause on fic to participate in National Novel Writing Month and try to work on some original stuff. But I should hopefully return to a more regular schedule in December! Thank you in advance for your patience. <3

_London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down_

_Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina_

_Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow_

_Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie_

_These fragments I have shored against my ruins_

**_ _**

Five drives through the night and into the early hours of the next morning, until the blood has dried on his skin and the hammer of his heart has slowed enough for him to think. They need food and other supplies, desperately. He’d rather try to get the essentials while he still has a working truck, he decides, and pulls off the empty highway when he sees an exit for Lubbock. A damaged sign on the city outskirts informs him that it was once home to close to three hundred thousand people, which probably means a _lot_ of Infected and potentially other hostiles, but he still has a pistol and a knife and his powers. 

He’ll make do. 

He parks the truck in an alley between two buildings, trying to keep to the shadows as much as he can. Klaus remains unconscious, no signs of stirring, and Five doesn’t want to just leave him here, but he doesn’t see any other options. He settles for blinking Klaus into the backseat and laying him out on the floor, then covering him with a tarp from the truck bed. He doesn’t have anything to write with, so he nicks his arm with the knife and uses the welling blood to scrawl _SUPPLIES BACK SOON STAY HERE_ on the back of the seat near Klaus’s head, just in case he wakes up. 

Then he climbs out of the truck and locks it behind him. The pistol has five bullets left and he tucks it into his waistband. The knife he keeps gripped tight in his hand and wills his timorous fingers to still. The adrenaline from last night is fading, allowing exhaustion to settle in its wake, and the blood in his hair and still coating his skin has dried to an uncomfortable, flaky crust that’s even stiffened his shirt. He doesn’t look at his reflection in the truck windows, though. Just squares his shoulders and heads into town. 

He just needs to last a little longer, then he can collapse. 

_ _ 

There _are_ Infected in the area he decides to search, but he avoids them fairly easily. After that Stage Four on the yacht, even Clickers seem less terrifying. He finds another backpack—rainbow this time, because he thinks it’ll make Klaus smile—and a handful of canned food in the remnants of a dollar store. A pharmacy two stores down yields first aid supplies, toothbrushes, toothpaste, and soap. Three blocks over in an outdoor/sporting store, he kills three Runners and finds a better hunting knife, a new camp stove, a gas mask, a second backpack for Klaus, and a rifle with one box of bullets. He jumps back to the truck to unload and check on Klaus—still unconscious—then tries to find a clothing store. It takes him nearly half an hour and two close calls with some Stalkers, but he finally locates an intact one about ten blocks away and picks out a couple new shirts for himself, along with two pairs of jeans, and some sneakers to replace his threadbare boots. He guesses Klaus’ size and gets a few things for him, too, stuffing them all into a second backpack. 

He’s pushing his own limits now and the haze of exhaustion nearly costs him dearly as he exits the store and is surprised by a Runner. It leaps onto him, throwing him to the ground, and claws at his face, shrieking. He stabs it in the eye with the knife, eliciting another ear-piercing howl, and shoves it off of him. It starts to recover, scrambling onto its hands and knees, but Five is faster, rolling into a crouch and jumping. 

He hits the side of the truck and immediately hunches over, throwing up bile and what might be a little blood as the tear opens inside of him again—his powers overused and completely depleted. 

“Shit,” he hiccups, bracing himself against the truck and blinking away the dark spots swimming in his vision. 

He can’t go again, even though he was hoping to get more food and another map. Fuck, he also didn’t find any water or a second mask… 

_Be realistic, Number Five,_ Dad’s voice snaps at him. Heaving a sigh and wiping his mouth, he straightens and unlocks the truck. Klaus is still passed out beneath the tarp. Five arranges the supplies along the backseat and decides to leave Klaus for now. He’s safer back there, anyway. 

He starts the engine and checks the gas tank. A quarter left. Hopefully that’ll at least get them out of Texas. 

_Just hold on,_ he thinks and isn’t sure he’s talking to Klaus or himself or both. If he closes his eyes for too long, he sees Allison hitting the dirt with a spray of red. He sees Jacob’s shark-like smile. He sees Klaus hung from a makeshift cross as the tide comes in. 

So he doesn’t close his eyes. He puts the truck in drive and leaves Lubbock behind. 

_ _ 

The gas tank gets them across the border into New Mexico and almost to the outskirts of Albuquerque before the dash lights up in warning. The setting sun casts the mostly-barren world beyond the truck an ethereal gold. Five spots a sign for a cattle ranch and pulls off the highway onto the narrow dirt road, gritting his teeth as the truck bounces and sways its way through ruts and potholes. 

His gamble pays off—the ranch house, barn, and other outbuildings are still completely intact and he can’t hear any Infected as he gets down from the truck, only the steady creaking of a rusting windmill as it turns in the evening breeze. He still does a sweep to make sure and comes up empty handed. The house looks like it was evacuated quickly and then not touched again—so quickly that there are plates still sitting at the dining table, as if the occupants were about to eat dinner before they were forced to flee. 

Of course this means that the food in the fridge and the pantries has rotted beyond recognition and the stench of it permeates the air, nearly making him gag. He opens the windows and puts the mess into a trash bag he finds under the sink, which he then dumps out by the shed to be properly dealt with later and moves on to unloading the truck. 

It takes two trips to carry all the supplies inside and arrange them in the living room. The house is single story, but spacious enough for two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and what looks like some kind of office full of radio equipment. 

Interesting. 

He picks the bedroom closest to the living room for Klaus and goes to retrieve him from the truck. 

“Klaus,” he says as he crouches over him on the backseat, shaking his shoulder. “Wake up.” 

A groan, a flutter of eyelashes, and then nothing. Five ignores the pinprick of fear in his gut and leans down to grip Klaus’s arms. “Fine, make it hard for me. I see how it is.” 

One more jump, he can do one more jump. 

He isn’t as accurate as he wants to be, landing on the floor in the middle of the room instead of close to the bed, but he makes it. He gasps through the painful aftermath, pressing his forehead to Klaus’s chest until the wave of dizziness and nausea passes. Once he’s recovered, he hauls Klaus over to the bed and heaves him onto it. Klaus flops like a dead fish, limbs akimbo and head heavy. If it wasn’t for the heartbeat Five can feel under his palm, he’d think Klaus was dead. 

He swallows and curls his fingers into the ruined fabric of Klaus’s shirt. “Please wake up soon,” he whispers, hating how small his voice sounds, hating the way he’s begging. “Please.” 

_ _ 

Klaus doesn’t wake up. 

Five dresses all the visible wounds on Klaus he can find, then finally washes himself off with water from the well out back, and _then_ cooks dinner with the camp stove and Klaus doesn’t wake up. 

Five sleeps fitfully on the floor of Klaus’s room, keeping watch, and then gets up the next morning to do a survey of the farm and the surrounding area. He finds an outdoor cooking area with some kind of cauldron that could be useful and some traps in the barn he could use for hunting. He lays them out in hopes of catching rabbits and eats more canned food and Klaus doesn’t wake up. 

Five searches through the office and finds what looks like cables for a generator that he traces down to a hidden cellar outside he missed. The generator doesn’t have much fuel left so Five runs it just long enough to turn on the radio equipment and realize that whoever lived here was monitoring FEDRA movements and some other militia group calling themselves The People’s Army. Both channels seem to be active and he learns the groups are skirmishing about twenty miles from here, great. He turns back off the equipment, powers down the generator, double checks his supply of ammo, and Klaus doesn’t wake up. 

Once one day has bled into three and then on into four, Five forces himself to face the reality that Klaus might _not_ wake up. He probably has internal damage and now he’s hovering on the threshold between life and death, slipping away in slow increments. Five remembers that when Klaus came back to life in Virginia Beach, his fatal stomach wound was completely healed. And Klaus himself said he can come back from pretty much anything, which _must_ mean his body restores itself every time. 

So if Five wants to get him back, he’ll have to kill him. 

The thought of it makes him ill and he spends the entire afternoon wavering, cycling through his options and trying to come up with an alternative solution, then trying to determine the best, most painless way to kill Klaus. A slit throat is too messy, same with any other artery or a bullet to the head. Strangulation could take too long and Five isn’t sure he trusts himself to do it right. Breaking Klaus’s neck could be quick, but getting him into the right position for it would be difficult.

Eventually, when it’s nearly dark out, he settles on suffocation. He’ll smother Klaus with a pillow and with any luck, Klaus won’t even really wake up to feel it. His feet are still made of lead as he shuffles into Klaus’s bedroom, each step requiring Herculean effort. He stops next to the bed, nails digging into his palms as he curls his hands into fists. 

“Wake up,” he spits through gritted teeth. “Don’t make me do this.” 

Klaus doesn’t stir. 

Fine. _Fine,_ he can do this. He _has_ to do this. 

He sucks in a watery breath and reaches over Klaus for the pillow on the other side of the bed. He grips it tight and fits it over Klaus’s face, then freezes—his body unwilling to move. 

_Do it,_ he snaps to himself, to the hesitation coiled inside of him. This isn’t even a permanent death. 

He clenches his teeth so hard his jaw hurts and pushes down, down, _down_ , staring at the wall instead of Klaus’s body as he feels it twitch and jerk at the sudden lack of air. Klaus isn’t really even conscious—this is just an instinctive, natural fight for survival as his brain starts to shut down. He still sees Allison hit the dirt over and over as Klaus shudders on the bed, still hears Jacob spit _you’re a monster_ —the words flecked with blood. 

Klaus’s body jerks harder and he applies more pressure, putting everything he has into keeping the pillow over Klaus’s nose and mouth. It’s almost over, it has to be. 

_Come on, come on, come on…._

At last, Klaus twitches one final time and goes still, limbs limp on the mattress. Five removes the pillow and checks for a pulse with shaky fingers. Nothing. Klaus is dead. 

Five killed him. 

He can’t bring himself to look at Klaus’s face, at the blood vessels that have burst in his eyes or the pallor of his skin. He staggers out of the house into the warm evening and vomits into the shrubbery still lining the porch—fingers curled so tight around the bannister that the wood grates against his palm, splinters prickling his skin. He can feel a scream clawing its way up his throat, lodged there since Allison, perhaps even since Moira, and he doesn’t bother fighting it. 

He opens his mouth and _screams_ —body pitching forward with the force of it. It tears his esophagus raw, sears his tongue and batters his teeth. It goes on forever and it’s over in an instant, leaving him shaky and numb in its wake. He slumps down onto the steps, burying his face in his hands, and tries to remind his lungs to keep cycling air, even though they’re burning. 

And then he hears the crunch of footsteps in the dirt of the yard. He jerks his head back up, reaching for the rifle he leaned against the railing earlier and aiming it instinctively at the intruder. He freezes when his eyes catch up with his reflexes, though, because he has to be hallucinating. There’s a woman standing in the middle of the yard, wearing an immaculate black coat and spiky red heels and carrying a bulky briefcase in one hand. She looks like Grace used to—like she just stepped out of a 1950s magazine, right down to the hat perched on her perfectly curled white-blonde hair. 

He debates shooting at her, just to see what happens, but he’s killed enough people in the last few days. Might as well play along instead. 

“Who the fuck are you?” he snaps. 

“I’m here to help,” she says, a bright smile on her face. It reminds him of Jacob—all sharp teeth. 

“Help?” he repeats incredulously. 

She walks forward, closing the distance between them and seeming completely unbothered by the rifle Five is pointing at her head. That, perhaps, unsettles him more than her strange appearance. She sets the briefcase at her feet and takes off her sunglasses, revealing piercing blue eyes. 

“I have an offer to make you,” she declares. 

“I’m not interested,” he says. He’s had quite enough of _offers._

“Oh, at least hear me out,” the woman says, pouting slightly. “I came all this way.” 

He adjusts his grip on the rifle and waits, a silent acquiescence. She smiles at him again and his skin crawls. 

_Don’t touch me,_ he thinks, which makes no sense. There’s still a good five feet of distance between them and she’s making no moves to come any closer. 

“I work for an organization called the Commission,” she says as she pulls a case out of her coat pocket. Five’s finger hovers over the trigger of the rifle but when she opens it, he realizes it’s just a cigarette and one of those old-fashioned holders. “We are tasked with the preservation of the time continuum through manipulation and removals.” 

“What?” This sounds crazy, but then again Klaus can’t die and Five jumped to an alternate universe when he was thirteen so really how sound should his judgment be on sanity?

“Sometimes people make decisions that alter time,” the woman explains. “Free will, don’t get me started.” She laughs and brings her cigarette up to her red lips. “When that happens, we dispatch one of our agents to … eliminate the threat.”

Alarms blare in his head and he moves to shoot, but the woman raises a placating hand. “No, no, no you misunderstand me. You’re not a target, you’re a recruit.” 

“A recruit?” he repeats dubiously. 

“Yes. I’ve come to offer you a job, Number Five.” 

She knows his _name_. And not the name he’s shared with people in this timeline, but the one Reginald Hargreeves gave him. 

“We’ve had our eye on you for quite some time. And we think you have a lot of potential. What you did back at that bandit compound … incredible work. Your survival skills have made you quite a celebrity back at headquarters. That and your ability to jump through time and space.” She takes a long drag of her cigarette and Five’s mind reels. 

They’ve been … watching him? 

_I’ve been hearing a lot about you,_ Jacob says and touches him, touches him, touches him. 

“So…” he says, voice a breaking rasp, “you want me to become one of these … agents.” 

“Yes. You’d be a valuable asset to the company, Five.” 

“And what do I get?” 

“Well, you’re young. You’d have a bright career ahead of you, instead of being stuck here. But our standard contract is five years of service. Once it’s finished, you get to retire to the time and place of your choosing. With a pension plan to boot.” 

An incredulous laugh spills from his mouth before he can stop it. “I’m not interested.” 

The woman exhales a plume of smoke. Her eyes glitter in the fading light. “I don’t think you quite understand your situation, Five. You don’t belong in this timeline. Now, I’ve managed to negotiate with the division that oversees it and got them to agree you'd be better working for us than dead. But if you refuse my offer, they _will_ come for you eventually. And you’re good, kid, but not _that_ good.” 

Five smiles at her, just as sharp at the one she keeps giving him. “I’ll take my chances.” 

“And your brother?” He tenses, instinctive. “Now, we usually try to avoid _collateral damage_ , but sometimes it can’t be helped. Do you really want to put him in danger, Five?” 

“He’s already in danger,” Five fires back and gestures to the world around him. “In case you haven’t noticed. We’ll be fine. I’m not coming to kill for you.” 

She laughs, condescending. “Oh please. How many people did you kill at that compound? Fifty? Seventy? You can’t even count, can you? You’re _already_ a killer, Number Five, and you have been for years. We’d just … _refine_ your skills. Give you a purpose instead of … wholesale slaughter.” 

He can feel, suddenly, the grit of blood beneath his nails, under the thin layer of his skin. He keeps his voice steady and simply raises the rifle a notch higher. “Then you should know I won’t have any problems shooting you. You should leave.” 

“You’re making a mistake, Number Five—”

_“Leave.”_

She sighs and shakes his head, like he’s a child throwing a tantrum and she’s a disappointed parent. It makes him want to shoot her even more, but he’s also afraid of this _rage_ that’s seething back to life inside of him and that’s enough to keep his finger hovering over the trigger instead of pulling it. 

“Consider my offer,” the woman says, bending down to pick up the briefcase. “I’ll be in touch.” 

She gives him a jaunty wave and disappears in a flash of blue light that reminds him of his powers. He flinches, startled, and blinks at the empty space she was just occupying a second before. When he moves closer, he sees fresh footprints in the dirt, confirming that she _was_ there. And it would make sense, wouldn’t it, for an organization that oversees fucking _time_ to be able to time travel. 

Fuck. 

First people mutated in horrible monsters, then a group of ruthless bandits, and _now_ an organization that employs fucking _assassins_ to manipulate historic events. He hated the beer that Jacob forced him to drink but suddenly he wants one. Maybe even enough of them to make him pass out because on top of all this, back in the house Klaus’s fucking body is still lying on one of the beds after Five _killed_ him. 

Five sinks onto the porch, leaning against the railing for support, and presses a hand to his rabbiting heart. 

_Breathe,_ he tells his aching lungs as he feels himself starting to hyperventilate. _Keep breathing._

He sucks in a shuddering breath and holds it, counting to six before he slowly lets it out again. Then repeat. 

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale…. 

_ _ 

Klaus opens his eyes to a familiar forest—twisted black branches overhead nearly blocking his view of the gray sky. The forest has been shifting in the last couple months, as he keeps returning. The trees have grown and morphed into gnarled, misshapen behemoths while inky ferns rise from the soil, coating the floor in undergrowth. The road and fence have been swallowed by roots and vines and fungal growth that eerily resembles the living world. The little girl stopped coming to speak to him, as Klaus died on a pillar by the ocean again and again and again. He doesn’t think that’s what killed him this time, though. He vaguely remembers Five’s voice and Five’s hand in his and the acrid smell of smoke. Then a truck and a house and … and something cutting off his air, suffocating him. 

Shit. 

He sits up with a groan, dead leaves crackling beneath his body. God, he _hates_ this place. Why can’t the afterlife or purgatory or whatever the fuck this is be like … a beachside resort? Or a bar where he can at least drink? Anything but a massively creepy forest. 

“Wow,” a voice says, both foreign and familiar. “You really _do_ end up here a lot.” 

He whips his head to the right and gasps at the figure seated on a log a few feet away. His suit and skin are a gray hue but the blood dripping down the side of his face from his head wound and the deep bite on his arm stand out in brilliant crimson. He looks exactly like he did the day he died—the same fall of his bangs across his forehead, the same sharp angles of his almost aristocratic features as he peers down at Klaus with piercing eyes. For a moment, the forest falls away and Klaus is standing in the mansion, surrounded by death and ruin, and his brother is sitting bloody on a sofa with a gun in his hand. 

“Five,” he hiccups now, scrambling to his feet. “Oh my god, _Five._ I … how is this possible? I’ve never been able to conjure you before, I can’t believe—” 

“I’m not real,” Five interjects. “At least, I’m not him. I’m a projection of your subconsciousness.” 

Klaus freezes again, his previous elation bursting like a balloon. “So … a hallucination?” 

Five shrugs. “Something like that.” 

“Well that’s new,” Klaus grumbles, scraping a hand over his face. 

“You’ve been through a lot, Klaus,” Five points out, with his characteristic bluntness, though his expression borders on gentle. “Maybe you just decided you didn’t want to be alone in here.” 

Klaus thinks back to that awful pillar, to dying slow while the ghosts screamed. Further back, to Jacob watching as he was hoisted onto it the first time, beaten bloody after his failed escape attempt. _You know,_ he said, laughing, _I’d put your little brother out here with you, but … well I like him._ He emphasized _like_ and his smile turned sadistic and all Klaus could do was spit blood in his face even as his own mind screamed for him to fight, to go save Five from this fucking _monster._

He managed to escape once, to get a ghost to help him, but he was weak and disoriented and they found him easily. It was the only death that was quick. They caved his head in with a bat and hung his body back up for the birds. He woke up an indeterminate amount of time later with salt on his lips and his lungs already starting to burn. The ghosts didn’t listen to him, after that, too caught up in their own agony, and he started to long for the forest just to have a break from the ceaseless wailing and the chorus of voices demanding help he couldn’t give them. 

“I’m tired,” he says now, to this specter of his long-dead brother with a piece of his skull missing and blood seeped into the patterns on his tie. “I’m so tired, Five. I just want it all to _stop._ ” 

“It’s not that simple,” Five says. 

_(Walk away, Klaus,_ he says in the living room as he picks up the gun. _There’s nothing you can do and you shouldn’t have to see this._ ) 

Klaus laughs so he doesn’t scream. “Oh I know that. Otherwise, I would have ended all this years ago.” 

“And besides,” Five’s voice shifts, raises. When Klaus looks back over at him, he still has the suit and the head wound and the bite but it’s fourteen-year-old Five looking back at him. “You’re not alone anymore. He needs you.” 

“I failed yo—him. I’ve failed him.” 

Five tilts his head. Blood glistens in his matted hair. “How? Because you got captured? Klaus, do you really think you could protect him from everything? You know what it’s like out there, you never would have succeeded.” 

“God, even when you’re just a hallucination, you’re an asshole,” Klaus grumbles, starting to pace backing and forth in a long line in front of the log.

“I’m being pragmatic.” And back to adult Five, _his_ Five. (Though they’re both his now, aren’t they?) “I’m pretty sure that’s why your brain chose to manifest me. Well, that and your obvious emotions and guilt surrounding my younger counterpart.” 

“Right, well even if I couldn’t protect him from _everything,_ I still could have prevented him from getting captured by a bunch of sadistic freaks. Or managed to break him out.” Jacob’s words replay in his head over and over, superimposed over a blurry image of Five covered in blood and frantically calling his name. 

“But you didn’t,” Five says. Klaus wants to punch him. “You have to accept that and move forward. He needs you.” 

Klaus keeps pacing, leaves _crunch, crunch, crunching_ beneath his boots. “And how am I supposed to do that, huh? I feel like I’m losing whatever’s left of my own sanity. And whatever … whatever happened, he’s _not_ gonna want to talk to me about it.” 

“So make him,” fourteen-year-old Five says. “Don’t let him shut you out. You’re family and you’re all each other has.” He sighs. “Dad was always good at making sure we fought as a team but were never able to actually rely on each other. He’s used to hiding his weaknesses away because he’s afraid he’ll be hurt for them, just like you used to. Prove him wrong.” 

Klaus kicks some of the leaves, watching them leap into the air and flutter down slow. “Diego would have been better at this. Or hell, even Luther.” 

“They’re gone,” twenty-three-year-old Five says. 

“I miss them,” Klaus whispers, staring up at the tangle of branches. “I miss you.” 

“Klaus, I’m not him,” Five murmurs, softer than he was a few moments ago. 

“I know!” Klaus turns to glare at him. “Just … pretend, okay? For a minute. Can’t my own brain at _least_ grant me that? Is that too much to fucking ask?” 

Some of the lines in Five’s face smooth out. “I miss you, too,” he says, in that tender way of his that he so rarely allowed any of them to see. “But I’m not coming back, and you’re not finished yet. Don’t give up on him. Or yourself.” He gets up off the log and for a moment he flickers—twenty-three to fourteen and back again. Klaus wants to hug him, in spite of the blood, but he’s afraid that his arms will go right through and then he’ll really lose it. 

“I’m going to tell you a secret, Klaus,” Five says, stopping in front of him. Even as an adult, Five was never blessed in the height department and Klaus stands a few inches taller than him. Still, his presence is commanding, expanding far beyond his slender frame. “You’ve always been stronger than you think you are. And you should wake up now.” 

“I can’t.” Klaus shakes his head and runs an agitated hand through his too-short hair. “I’ve never been able to control this place. I just have to wait until it decides to spit me back into the mortal realm or whatever.” 

“I think you can,” Five counters. “Focus.” He raises a hand. “And _wake up_.” He snaps his fingers next to Klaus’s ear and the forest abruptly vanishes.

Klaus gasps and his eyes fly open, revealing a pale blue ceiling overhead. 

Holy shit. He’s awake. 

He still feels like he’s run a marathon and _then_ gotten hit by a train, but at least he’s breathing again. He sits up slowly, grimacing at the stiffness in his limbs. This time, he’s on a bed in a fairly pristine looking room. It’s decorated in stereotypical ranch style, complete with a cowboy painting on one wall and a set of cattle horns mounted on another. Judging from the brightness of the sun outside, it’s at least mid-morning. 

A glance down confirms that he’s still wearing the tattered remains of the outfit he had on when they foisted him onto that cursed pillar, now crusted with blood and dirt, but someone (Five) cleaned him up a little and bandaged his cuts and lacerations and bruises. 

How long has he been dead this time? 

He guesses there’s only one way to find out and eases off the bed, grabbing onto the footboard for balance as his legs get used to carrying his weight again. When he hobbles over to the door, he notices a hot pink sticky note plastered to it at roughly his eye level. 

_GONE OUT_ it says in Five’s scratchy handwriting. _BACK LATER. CLOTHES ON TABLE. WELL WATER SAFE OUTSIDE. FOOD ON COUNTER._

Klaus swallows down instinctive worry at the idea of Five out there on his own, even though Five got them this far by himself. Wherever here is. 

“You’d better come back in one piece, you little asshole,” Klaus mutters as he pulls down the note and opens the door. 

The main living area keeps the ranch theme: warm-toned walls, hand-crafted, rustic furniture, more paintings of cowboys, yet more horns, and cowboy figurines scattered on several surfaces, gathering dust. The kitchen/dining area is through an open archway and Klaus finds several cans of soup arranged on the counter and a change of clothes neatly folded on the round dining table, next to a pistol and box of bullets. 

_FOR YOU_ says a bright blue note. 

Klaus leaves them for now, wanting to explore first. One of the bedrooms is still closed and untouched so he doesn’t bother opening it. It doesn’t _smell_ like there are any bodies inside but honestly you never know, these days. The second room (third if you count the one he woke up in) is some kind of office with an impressive radio set up. On the desk, he finds a scrap of paper with more of Five’s handwriting and a weathered map of New Mexico. 

_FEDRA vs. PEOPLE’S ARMY - 20 miles_

_PA RAID - 15 miles_

_FEDRA ATTACK - 25 miles_

_FEDRA + PA SKIRMISH - 10 miles_

_EXPANDED FEDRA PATROL - 5 miles_

The map is full of read circles and Xs, like Five’s been marking locations. Some seem to correspond with the incidents on the paper—FEDRA fighting what must be some kind of militia, with a name like People’s Army. Others are closer to where Klaus guesses this house is and might be scavenging locations. There are several areas Five has completely blacked out, all small towns surrounding the ranch. It seems like he’s looking for something in particular but Klaus has no idea what. 

Unease churns in his gut. Just how long has he been dead, for Five to have all this set up? 

He shakes his head and leaves the office behind, returning to the main room. Five said something about well water…. 

On the front door is another note, neon green this time: _WELL AROUND BACK OF HOUSE. NEAR BIG TREE._

Right, okay. Klaus pulls open the door and descends the steps of the porch, following Five’s direction around the back and to what looks like one of the only trees on the property. The sun is high in the sky now and the warm air is a blessing after experiencing the chill of the ocean for so long. He pauses in front of the well just to bask in it, sucking in several deep breaths and tilting his face towards the near cloudless sky. 

There is so much ugliness in this world, but so much beauty too. He’d appreciate it more if there were less things trying to kill him on a regular basis. 

He removes the cover from the well and hauls up a bucket of water. It looks clean, just like Five said, and he drinks several palmfuls, soothing his parched throat and chapped lips. He always wakes up free of injuries, internal or external, but his body will quickly remember that it hasn’t actually eaten or drank anything in days and start making a lot of demands. Even now, his stomach is rumbling insistently. 

“In a minute,” he mutters to it as he wriggles out of his ruined shirt and then his pants, uncaring of who might see him. Naked, he scrubs himself clean with the cloth and soap he finds set carefully in another container next to the well. Five really thought of everything. 

He dumps the remaining water over his head to wash his hair and then puts his underwear back on. He’ll burn his old clothes later since he never wants to see them again, thanks. He tugs his boots back on and then decides to check out the property while he lets himself air dry. 

He finds a barn full of old riding equipment and hay bales; a tool shed; something that looks like it was once a chicken coop; lots of pastures; and a small stable that probably housed several horses. Everything is eerily quiet, no signs of Infected but also no signs of other life. From what he can remember from the map, they’re at least thirty or so miles outside of Albuquerque and not _really_ close to any civilization. Harder for scavenging but at least they seem safe—Five chose well. 

Sufficiently dry, he heads back into the house and dresses in the new clothes that Five left him: fresh underwear, jeans, and a baggy gray t-shirt. They’re all a little big on him, but everything feels like it is, these days. His stomach rumbles again, louder, and he gives in to its whining. There’s a camp stove on the kitchen island and a pot next to it. 

_FUEL FULL_ says an orange post-it from Five. 

Klaus starts heating up a can of minestrone soup and tries to get his head screwed back on all the way as he waits for it to cook, drumming his fingers on the counter. That hallucination of Five in the forest was new, and he’s never woken up like that before. There are also the noticeable changes to the forest. Could it really be that he’s affecting it? That it’s … morphing itself to his mental state? But why _now,_ after nearly seven years of this shit? He’s died _plenty_ of times before this, but most of those were self-inflicted. Is it the fact that he died unwillingly so many times in a row? Was it his anger at his own helplessness? The sudden amount of ghosts he was surrounded by after only occasional interaction for so many years? 

Fuck, he doesn’t know. Understanding his stupid powers has always been a shot in the dark. He’ll just have to gather more data the next time he inevitably kicks the bucket. 

The soup starts bubbling and he turns the camp stove off, then pours the soup into a bowl he finds in one of the cupboards. He eats standing up, leaning against the island and trying not to inhale the food too fast. The last thing he wants is to throw it up again in an hour. 

Once he’s finished, he cleans the bowl out with a paper towel and sits down at the table to load the pistol. It feels good to have a weapon again, even though he used to loathe guns. He doesn’t want to think about what dear old Reggie might say, seeing him now. Look at Number Four, the Great Disappointment, he can actually take care of himself! And fight! And shoot! And (somewhat) control those incredible powers of his! What a _miracle!_

 _And I did it all without you, Old Man,_ he thinks vehemently as he sets the loaded pistol back on the table. _So much for your stupid training._

He laughs, high-pitched and a little hysterical. Somehow, thinking about the bastard that raised him has become easier than facing what happened over the last few months _or_ Five and what state he might be in now. 

God, when is he coming back, anyway? If it’s not soon, Klaus is going to go look for him—note be damned. 

But as if Klaus’s thoughts actually summoned him, the front door suddenly opens and Five steps through. He freezes when he sees Klaus sitting at the table, eyes blowing wide and stunned. Klaus feels his own breath leave him as he takes Five in. He’s a little taller (thought not much) and his face has sharpened even more, looking closer to the twenty-three-year old version that lives frozen in Klaus’s head. He’s got fresh, still-healing scars on his forearms that look like fucking _burns_ and a rainbow pack slung over his shoulder, along with a hunting rifle. His hair’s getting long again—almost past his ears now. He holds himself like a frightened animal, tense and ready to run or lash out at the first hint of danger. But he’s alive and in one piece and after the last few months, that feels extraordinary. An impossibility come true. 

Klaus wants to weep or shout or drag Five into his arms. He has no idea what to say. 

“Klaus,” Five finally speaks first. His voice is hoarse, like he hasn’t been using it much. “You’re awake.” 

“I am,” Klaus says, managing to keep his gathering tears out of his voice. “How … how long have I been dead?” 

Five’s eyes glaze over a little. “Two and a half weeks, give or take a couple days. Almost three.” 

Wait … _what?_ That _can’t_ be right. He’s _never_ stayed dead that long. His current record, if he’s remembering right, is four days—nowhere _close_ to three weeks. 

“Three weeks?” he repeats, incredulous. 

Five nods. “I was starting to wonder if you were really dead this time,” he whispers. His gaze is haunted. “If you weren’t going to come back.” 

_Did you kill me?_ Klaus wants to ask, but really he already knows the answer and he can see how fragile Five is right now—so full of fracture lines that even a light touch in the wrong place might shatter him. So he holds his tongue and says “I’m sorry” instead. 

Five shifts his weight, uneasy. “It’s okay,” he says, which is perhaps one of the biggest lies he’s ever told. “I know you can’t control when you come back. It’s not your fault.” 

“I’m still sorry.” Klaus stands up, slowly. “I don’t like leaving you alone.” 

Five’s chin lifts and his jaw clenches, a spark of familiar defiance bleeding through. “I can manage.” 

“I know.” A few steps closer. Five stays hovering by the doorway, open to the afternoon beyond—an easy escape. “That doesn’t mean you should have to.” 

Five blinks. Swallows. Klaus finally reaches him and sees the coiled, springboard tension running through him. _Don’t touch me,_ his posture seems to scream, but he’s also not running or lashing out, just staring up at Klaus like he’s fighting a war with himself and he’s not sure which side is winning. Or which one he _wants_ to win. 

“Five,” Klaus murmurs, “I’d like to hug you. Is that okay?” 

A long, excruciating pause. But then Five pulls in a watery breath and nods without meeting Klaus’s eyes. Klaus leans forward and wraps his arms tight around Five, pressing them together and resting his chin on top of Five’s head. Five stays stiff and uncertain for a moment, two, then sags against Klaus. His arms come up and his fingers dig into Klaus’s back through the fabric of Klaus’s shirt, clawing and desperate. 

He’s not crying, that Klaus can tell, but he seems on the brink of it. There are a thousand more things Klaus wants to ask— _what happened, how did you get us out, did he hurt you did he hurt you did he hurt you_ —but he buries them, too, and focuses on holding Five as close as possible with the backpack and the rifle in the way. 

“I’ve got you, Fivey,” he says and a faint sob spills from Five’s mouth in return. Klaus can’t tell if that’s a good or bad response. He kisses the top of Five’s head and just keeps holding him—he won’t let go until Five wants to. “I’m here, okay? You don’t have to do any of this alone anymore.” 

He can feel tears now, wetting his shirt. His own vision is blurry, but he blinks stubbornly, determined not to let anything spill over. Five has been the strong one for too long, it’s Klaus’s turn to shoulder that burden. 

At last, minutes or eons later, Five pulls back enough to frantically wipe at his face and battle through a trembling inhale. 

“I’m … glad you’re back,” he croaks out. Klaus kisses the top of his head one more time. 

“Me too, baby brother. I think we have a lot to catch up on.” 

Five laughs, half rueful, half bitter. “Yeah … yeah we do.” 

“Let’s get these off you, first,” Klaus says, easing the rifle and the backpack off of Five’s shoulders. “I like the rainbow.” 

“Me too,” Five mumbles. 

Klaus sets the pack and rifle by the door, then shuts it. “Where were you?” 

“Supply run,” Five says, regaining more of his composure. “There’s a little town about ten miles from here that I hadn’t checked out yet.” 

“Long way to walk,” Klaus observes, glancing down at Five’s sneakers. 

Five shrugs. “I left a little before dawn and it took me about two hours each way. Wasn’t bad. And I got some more food.” 

“But not what you were looking for?” Five frowns at him, brow furrowed in confusion. Klaus coughs and gestures in the direction of the bedrooms. “I saw the radio set up. And the map. You’ve been blocking off sections—seemed like you were searching for something in particular.” 

“Oh.” Five deflates. “Yeah. Gas for the truck. I was hoping I could find more of it. I’ve been checking every gas station within walking distance, but it looks like FEDRA or The People’s Army cleared them out.” 

“Another militia?” 

Five nods, heading over to the table and sinking down in one of the chairs. He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks and Klaus’s chest aches, deep and familiar. “Yeah, they’ve been fighting with FEDRA around the borders of the QZ. Came a little close for comfort once, but we’re okay for now. Just … probably not for long.”

Hence the gas, Klaus surmises. Better to get out of a burgeoning war zone by car than on foot. 

“FEDRA’s set up an outpost,” Five continues, crossing his skinny arms over his skinny chest. “A few towns over. Probably to try to deal with the PA. I’m sure there’s fuel there. I just haven’t made the walk out yet. I didn’t …” He stutters to a stop, but quickly collects himself again. “I didn’t want to leave you alone that long.” 

“Wait, you want to rob FEDRA _directly_?” That seems harebrained, even for Five. 

Five nods. 

“Fivey, that’s suicide.” 

“It would have been,” Five agrees grimly. “But there’s been … a development.” 

Klaus arches his eyebrows. “A development?” 

Five takes a deep breath … and blinks across the room, reappearing on one of the sofas. Klaus’s mouth drops open in shock. “You,” he stutters, “you have your powers back.” 

Something dark and terrible flashes briefly across Five’s face before he nods. “Yeah. Yeah I … it’s how I got us out.” 

There is a _lot_ more to that story, Klaus can tell, but Five is moving on quickly. “So, it shouldn’t be too difficult, if we scope out the outpost, to blink in and get the fuel. That truck could get us to LA in days, instead of weeks, Klaus. We should at least try.” 

Five’s right, of course he is. It’s just that everything unspoken looms between them—the specter of the past filling the whole room and pressing down on Klaus’s lungs. He can feel cloth over his nose and mouth, can taste smoke on his tongue, can see the sea rolling in and blood all over Five’s skin. In a black forest, a different Five tells him to be strong, whispers _he needs you._ But even though he’s free, and that beach is far behind them, Klaus still feels like he’s drowning. 

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s check out that outpost.”

 _Coward,_ Ben hisses at him. 

“We can go tomorrow,” Five says. 

“Tomorrow,” Klaus agrees weakly and closes his eyes. 

_ _ 

They leave before the sun is up. Five brings his rainbow pack, the rifle, the map, and two large canteens of water. He procured a pack for Klaus at some point, so Klaus is carrying some food, their medical kit, and spare ammo, along with his pistol and a knife. They keep off the main highway, cutting through what feels like endless desert brush on a winding path that only Five can see. 

Once the sun rises, the heat quickly becomes oppressive, even though they’re approaching the cusp of winter. Klaus can feel sweat drip down his neck in steady rivulets, itching his skin and staining his clothes. For once, he’s grateful for his shorter hair, even though he resents that it was cut without his consent. He shaved his beard back into its usual neat goatee last night so at least he feels a _little_ more human than he did when he woke up. 

He’s still worried about Five, though, who’s barely spoken two words in as many hours. He checks, constantly, to make sure that Klaus is keeping up—seemingly also reassuring himself that Klaus is indeed there. Normally, Klaus would talk to fill the void and comfort Five, but he feels like all his own words have dried up too. He learned to keep himself quiet while in captivity because the Rattlers were constantly looking for an excuse to punish prisoners and mouthing off (or even just _talking)_ was a sure fire way to earn a _lovely_ beating. And then there was the pillar and time slipping away from him and the only thing talking did was attract the attention of the ghosts or the Rattlers coming to hang more prisoners up to die. 

So they walk in silence until they reach the outpost, which really looks like a converted town center—just a cluster of old shops and a few houses along the highway that FEDRA’s erected an intimidating fence around. But there’s a gas station and judging by the vehicles parked there, it still has a fuel supply. 

There are also _lots_ of uniformed FEDRA troops loitering around, armed to the teeth. Klaus counts ten in his immediate vision, with potentially more in the nearby buildings.

“Okay,” Five says, shrugging the rifle off his shoulder and handing it to Klaus. “Wait here. If I’m not back in ten minutes, cause a distraction of some kind. Just to get their attention.” 

“What?” It’s strange, having Five boss him around like this. “Five.” 

“If I’m not back in fifteen, just go,” Five continues, ignoring him. 

Klaus grabs his arm. Five flinches, far more violently than he ever has before, but Klaus is too unbalanced and frustrated to let go. “Wait a fucking minute. You’re _not_ going in there alone while I sit out here and twiddle my thumbs.” 

Five gives him a cool look that is so painfully reminiscent of his older counterpart that Klaus’s stomach lurches. “Klaus, you’d just slow me down.”

He says it clipped, matter-of-fact, and the tone alone makes Klaus want to protest further. But Five’s _right,_ goddamnit. Klaus doesn’t have any handy teleportation powers and he can’t sense any ghosts nearby that he might be able to call upon. He’s as useless as he was back in their Academy days. 

“Fine,” he hisses, letting go of Five’s arm and clutching the rifle. “But no unnecessary risks, got it?” 

“Got it,” Five says, and then he’s gone with a _zap_ and Klaus is alone behind this stupid rock. He curses under his breath and peers down the scope of the rifle, trying to spot Five in the small compound. But he must have jumped into one of the buildings, probably the gas station itself, and all Klaus can see is the FEDRA troops. 

Time ticks by, painfully slow. 

Klaus is just deciding which FEDRA agent would be the best to shoot first when Five reappears beside him, breathing hard and clutching two large gas canisters. There’s blood on his hands and smeared across his cheek, but Klaus can’t see any visible wounds on him. His stomach sinks. 

No one’s started yelling back at the outpost, which means Five got in and out undetected at least. 

“I’m going back for more,” Five says. 

“Five—” 

And he’s gone again, the little shit. 

“I don’t know why I wanted him to get his powers back,” Klaus mutters to himself and goes back to watching the outpost through the scope. 

_This_ time he spots Five after a few minutes, crouched in the doorway of the gas station with two more canisters at his feet. _And_ he sees the FEDRA agent turning in Five’s direction, faster than Five is going to be able to jump away, if Five has even noticed that he’s about to be spotted. 

Klaus shoots. The agent’s head explodes in a grisly spray of blood. Shouts go up through the compound, intercut with barking dogs, and Five blinks out of sight. 

“Thanks,” he says when he appears behind the rock. 

“We need to move.” Klaus slings the rifle over his shoulder and picks up two of the canisters. They’re heavy, and he’s surprised Five was able to manage them by himself, considering his tiny frame. 

“Agreed.” Five says and shifts closer. He picks up one of the canisters, slots the other between his feet, and curls a hand around Klaus’s wrist. “Deep breath.” 

“What—” 

They jump. Klaus feels like his stomach flings itself violently up his esophagus before crashing back into place and he claps a hand over his mouth to keep from throwing up, dropping a canister as they land somewhere out of sight of the compound. 

“Oh my god.” 

“Sorry,” Five says and grits his teeth as he picks up the canisters. “But we should keep moving. I couldn’t take us that far away.” 

Right, right. FEDRA. 

Klaus retrieves his dropped canister and forces his feet forward as fast as he can. 

_ _ 

It’s a long walk home, since they have to stop numerous times to catch their breath, and the sun has long set by the time they’re stumbling back up the porch steps of the ranch house. They line up the gas canisters just inside the door and Klaus collapses on the couch. 

“We're never doing that again,” he huffs. 

Five nods in wordless agreement, looking half-dead on his feet. He still has dried blood on his skin and shirt and questions continue to buzz in Klaus’s mind like angry bees: _did you kill anyone? I didn’t know you could jump with another person, at least not yet? Are we going to talk about any of this?_

“I’m going to wash up,” Five says and disappears back outside. 

Klaus sighs into the quiet and drags a dusty hand over his equally dusty face. _God,_ he misses drugs.

 _Coward,_ Diego says. 

_I know,_ Klaus agrees and hauls himself up to start making dinner. 

_ _ 

According to the radio and Five, FEDRA has blamed the PA for the attack on the outpost and fighting has escalated dramatically. Within two days, they can actually hear distant gunfire while at the ranch, and they both agree it’s time to leave. 

Klaus takes care of refueling the truck while Five packs up their supplies in the house. He’s bad at math, but he estimates that they should definitely have enough gas to get them to LA. What might be waiting for them there, he has no idea. He wants to hold out hope for Allison, but he also feels the need to be pragmatic. Hope hasn’t gotten him many places, especially now, and he’s so tired of picking up the pieces of it when it gets ground into the dirt again and again. 

Five emerges from the house, carrying both packs and the rifle over his shoulders. He doesn’t look any more well rested than he has since Klaus came back to life. Last night, Klaus even thought he heard a faint scream coming from the second bedroom where Five’s been sleeping, but he didn’t want to embarrass Five by intruding and he had his own share of nightmares, waking up over and over feeling like he was asphyxiating and having to monitor his breathing to remind himself that his body was okay. At one point, he thinks his bedroom door clicked open—Five checking on him—but he didn’t say anything and Five left quickly. 

_We’re such a mess,_ he thinks as Five loads their supplies in the back of the truck and climbs into the passenger seat. 

(He’d offered to drive that morning, but Klaus shot him down. Five got them this far, now Klaus can get them the rest of the way to LA.) 

“It should only take us about two days,” Five says when Klaus slips behind the wheel and starts the engine. “If we don’t run into any trouble.” 

Ha, there’s the kicker. 

“Here’s hoping,” Klaus says grimly and throws the gear into drive. 

_ _ 

The first day passes uneventfully, though they have to change course several times to avoid destroyed sections of road or towns that look too dangerous to venture into. Five finally sleeps, slumped against the window, but it’s restless and twitching slumber. Klaus glances at him several times, watching the distress play across his young face, and rehearses speeches in his head to get Five to open up to him. 

He doesn’t want them to keep going on like this. Doesn’t want to let things fester like they always did when Klaus was a kid. He and the others left so much unspoken that they stopped talking to each other entirely … until the distance poisoned them and the world fucking ended. He can’t make that mistake with this Five, he _won’t._

When the sun disappears on the horizon line and Klaus’s eyes start drooping, he decides it’s not worth trying to find a place to sleep for one night and simply pulls off the road into a sprawling field of high green grass, rippling like a green sea in the night wind. Klaus kills the engine and sits for a long moment, watching the sky darken into a black expanse and stars begin to gleam. Not for the first time, he stares at the sliver of the moon hung amidst all that space and wonders if Luther’s still up there. Probably not, his supplies would have run out years ago, but it’s nice sometimes: the idea that Number One’s still trying to watch over them. 

Suddenly, Five jerks awake with a gasp, eyes darting frantically around the truck before they land on Klaus and slowly the terror leeches from them. 

“Hi,” Klaus murmurs. 

“How long was I asleep?” Five asks, pushing his messy hair out of his eyes. 

“A couple hours. You looked like you needed it.” 

“I’m fine,” Five insists. 

Klaus sighs. “You’re not.” He holds up a hand when Five opens his mouth to protest. “And I’m not. Neither of us are fine, Five, and it’s pointless to pretend like we are.” 

Five’s jaw works for a moment. “What else are we supposed to do?” he asks at last, harsh and grating. “What good does … _dwelling_ on it do?” 

“Nothing,” Klaus agrees. “But running from it doesn’t help anything, either. Trust me.” 

He’s spent so long, running from so many things, and in the end he learned that they’d always haunt him unless he finally turned around and faced them directly. And it’s fucking _hard,_ he’s still working on it. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to talk about Diego and Vanya dying, or even Five and Ben, but he’s no longer living in denial of their absence or the reality of his own immortality. That _has_ to be progress. Right?

Five shakes his head and curls up in a tiny ball in the seat, legs tucked protectively against his chest. _Rollie Pollie pose,_ Klaus thinks with strange fondness. It’s nice to see that not _everything has_ changed. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Five snarls defensively. 

“I know.” Klaus keeps his voice calm, as patient as he can. He expected this, after all. “But I think you should. Because carrying it all alone is going to break you eventually. I’m not going to judge you, or abandon you. I’m not Dad, Five. I don’t care about stupid perceived weakness, okay? So please don’t—” 

Five fumbles open the door of the truck and escapes into the night. Klaus curses and scrambles after him. If he blinks, Klaus is going to lose his _shit._

Fortunately, Five hasn’t gone far, just a few yards from the truck. The grass comes up to his chest, nearly obscuring him from view in the darkness. Klaus stops a foot from him, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans and wishing desperately that he could manifest Ben or Vanya—who always understood Five the best—or even Diego, who was just better at emotion in general. He doesn’t know what to do with the tremors running through Five’s bony shoulders or the slightly panicked hitch of Five’s breathing. 

“I know it was bad,” Klaus says, figuring the blunt approach is probably the best with Five. Give in the same manner you receive or something like that. “I know whatever happened was terrible, Fivey, and I know it’s tearing you up inside.” He lets out a short, pained laugh. “Trust me, I _get it._ I don’t think I ever want to set foot on a beach again. And sometimes at night, I have to check that I’m not like … suffocating.” 

Five flinches at that, like Klaus punched him. 

Klaus keeps going. “These last few months have been _hell,_ and you’re an idiot if you think you can carry all that alone, baby brother. _Let me help you._ ” 

“I don’t want your help,” Five insists without looking at him. 

“Why?” Klaus presses. “Do you think you don’t deserve it?” 

Another flinch. Bingo, ladies and gentleman! 

“Five,” Klaus says, aching, “you’re my _family._ Of course you deserve my help, I—”

“I put a pillow over your face and held it there until you stopped breathing,” Five cuts in, voice flat and cold. 

“You knew I’d come back,” Klaus insists through the chill that runs beneath his skin at the mental image Five just provided. “You did the _right thing._ I was dying anyway.”

Five shakes his head, almost frantic. “And before that, I left you to rot on a … a fucking _cross_ for _weeks._ I should have gotten you out sooner, I should have—” 

( _I’m sorry,_ twenty-three-year-old Five says in the ruins of their home, already shaky from fever, _I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it, Klaus._ ) 

“ _No,_ ” Klaus snaps. “Five, saving me was _not_ your responsibility. You’re a kid and it’s _my_ job to look after you. _I’m_ the one who failed.” 

Five finally rounds on him, practically crackling with fury, but his eyes gleam with unshed tears. “I’m _not_ a fucking kid!” 

“You’re _fifteen.”_ Klaus’s whole chest feels bruised. “You _are_ a kid. I don’t care what Dad said or what he tried to make you into, but you _are._ You _should be._ You should be able to rely on someone to protect you, to look after you. I wanted to give that to you and I’m sorry I couldn’t.” 

Five shakes his head. The tears are spilling over, staining his cheeks. Klaus has no idea if they’re making progress or if he’s just making this worse. 

“I killed them,” Five says, all jagged edges and biting grit. “I killed almost all of them, Klaus. Every fucking Rattler in that compound. And before that? Did _your_ version of the Umbrella Academy use non lethal force? Because we sure as hell didn’t. It’s nice that you want to protect me, but I’m _not a kid_ and I never have been and I’m _no_ t your _responsibility.”_

All … _all_ the Rattlers? _Five_ killed….? 

He’s frozen, brain stuttering over Five’s statement and unable to reconcile with it. Five shoulders past him, heading back to the truck. Klaus hears him climb into the bed of it and pull the cloth tarp over himself, probably intending to sleep some more. He stays in the field and breathes in slow. 

Hold. 

Exhale.

Repeat. 

He thinks of Ben in a bank, an art gallery, a museum—covered in blood and shaking. He thinks of Diego’s knives always finding their targets. He thinks of the buildings Vanya tore open. He thinks of the first bullet he put in another person’s head. 

So Five apparently massacred an entire compound? Fine. Klaus said he wouldn’t judge him, and he meant it. Those fuckers honestly had it coming, anyway. But he _also_ knows that no matter how aloof Five is acting, killing like that _affects_ you. No matter how much you try to shove it down to a dark place inside of yourself and never look at it again. 

He turns and walks back to the truck, climbing in beside Five and lying down on his back. Five is curled up and turned away from him, posture screaming _leave me the fuck alone._ Klaus stares up at the stars, locating Cassiopeia, Pegasus, and Pisces. Aquarius, Aries, and Cepheus. Once upon a time, him and Ben used to sneak up onto the Academy roof and pretend they could see stars beyond the city lights, pointing out imaginary constellations in the washed out sky. Sometimes, Five would join them. He wonders if the Five next to him ever did anything like that. 

“I won’t force you to talk to me,” he says softly and sees Five stiffen in the corner of his eye. “I can’t make you do anything. But I’m still not going to judge you. Not for killing me or killing them. Not for anything that happened now or before you came here.” He scratches nervously at his beard and sighs up at the stars. “And I … it wasn’t that you were just a responsibility. I _wanted_ to be an older brother to you. I still do. Family looks out for each other.” Another sigh. “Fuck, I’m bad at this, I’m sorry. Just … if you _do_ want to talk, I’ll listen, Five. I promise.” 

Resounding silence. 

Well then. 

Klaus swallows back the rest of his words and wriggles into a slightly more comfortable position, pulling the tarp over himself too. 

He closes his eyes, but sleep doesn’t come. 

_ _ 

The silence lingers in the morning and makes itself an uncomfortable presence as they eat breakfast and Klaus slips back behind the wheel. It presses down on them in the truck as they rumble down the empty highway, carefully avoiding abandoned vehicles scattered along it. Five stares out the window and Klaus stares at road and longs for a cigarette or a pill or even some fucking music. He once again doesn’t have a cassette player, fucking Rattlers. 

Then he sees a turnoff for the Grand Canyon and inspiration strikes him. It’s out of their way by … quite a lot, but they have the gas to spare and they could use a good thing, he decides. 

“What are you doing?” Five asks when Klaus turns off. “We’re supposed to be going—” 

“Oh hush,” Klaus says, flapping a hand at him. “We’ve got enough fuel and I’ve always wanted to see it.” 

Five sinks back into his seat with a shake of his head. Klaus hums to himself, just to fill the silence, and after about an hour, he spots a sign for Grand Canyon National Park. He turns off the highway, following further signs that guide him to Yavapai Point, then parks the truck in the empty lot and kills the engine. 

“Come on.”

Five follows him, still maddeningly silent, to the trail cutting through the trees and other underbrush and then down the winding stone steps to the observation point. The canyon yawns before them, stretching all the way to the horizon line. The enormity of it takes Klaus’s breath away. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything this _big,_ besides the ocean. And even this feels … more vast and terrifying, somehow. Perhaps because he can lean over the railing and see how _deep_ the canyon goes—a fall of thousands of feet yawning below him. 

“Isn’t this incredible?” he asks Five, watching the sun turn the rocks red and gold. 

“Yeah,” Five whispers, clutching the railing. “Yeah, it is.” 

Klaus grins at him, not expecting Five to return it, and then leans further over the railing and shouts as loud as he can. Five startles, but Klaus cackles in delight as he hears his voice echo, bouncing off the canyon walls. 

“Now your turn,” he says to Five, nudging him. 

“No,” Five says flatly. 

“Oh, _c’mon._ Live a little, Five-0. And it’s cathartic!” 

“No.” 

“Scream.” 

“No.” 

“Yell.” 

“ _No.”_

“Yodel.” 

“Would you please—” 

“Express yourself!” 

“I hate you.” 

“Let it out!” 

“I—” 

“Come on! You’re tiny and if you keep everything pent up inside, you’re just gonna explode one day and _that’s_ not—” 

Five leans over the railing and screams. It’s equal parts rage and grief, far more primal than Klaus’s shout, twisting his face with the force of it. After a second, Klaus joins him, dredging up the forest and the ocean and six graves and the scream that he’s kept lodged in the back of his throat since he was a child locked in a mausoleum. It hurts his ribs and makes his throat ache but it’s _freeing_ too: hearing his voice mix with Five’s—both of them venting their pain to the Earth. 

Five slumps against the railing, shoulders hitching, and Klaus listens to their screams echo down the canyon, eventually fading. 

“Oh, Five,” he murmurs when he realizes that Five is crying again, struggling desperately to get himself under control. 

He puts a hand in the middle of Five’s back to anchor him as Five sucks in a water-logged breath and then another. 

“There was a girl,” Five hiccups after a moment. “Her name was Allison.” Klaus winces at the name, but keeps his mouth shut—afraid of upending this delicate moment, ruining this trust Five is placing in him. “We shared a cell and I told myself I wouldn’t get attached, it was pointless to get attached, but I … I did. I started looking out for her, making sure she got enough supplies on scavenging runs and that the guards didn’t beat her. I gave her my food so she wouldn’t starve. I thought that maybe I could get her out, get her to San Antonio or something but…” 

He half-gasps, half-sobs and Klaus aches, aches, _aches_ because he already knows how this story is going to end. 

“But then Jacob,” Five continues, rallying himself again. “Jacob…” He squeezes his eyes shut, tears still leaking down his cheeks. 

“Did he hurt you?” Klaus asks carefully, unable to get Jacob’s smile out of his mind—predatory in a way Klaus became painfully familiar with during his drug-fueled years on the streets. 

“No,” Five says, shaking his head. “No he … he didn’t actually….” 

“That doesn’t mean he didn’t hurt you,” Klaus replies firmly, echoing something Diego once said to him, when they finally talked about those lost years and some of the things Klaus did to keep himself numb, to keep his supply of drugs. 

“He just touched me,” Five grits out. “And … and talked. And made me drink. But he wanted to. He … he made me an offer. He’d protect me and you if I worked for him. And if I….” 

“If you slept with him,” Klaus surmises grimly and Five shudders beneath his hand—a silent confirmation. For a black, terrible moment, Klaus wishes he could conjure Jacob and find a way to torment his ghost. 

“I told him I needed to think about it.” Five wipes at his messy face. “He told me that refusals have consequences but I wasn’t _planning_ on … I just needed to _think._ Anyway, he let me go. Told me he’d see me that night. But they didn’t take me back to my cell, they took me to a courtyard and Allison…” 

Klaus moves his hand up to squeeze Five’s shoulder. 

“They shot her,” Five says, staring out at the canyon with glazed eyes. “They shot her in the head. Refusals have consequences.” 

"Five…” 

“And then I just … I _jumped,_ ” Five presses on, ignoring Klaus. “I was even aware until it happened. It was so _easy_ and I thought … they needed to pay. So I made them pay. I got Jacob to tell me where you were and then I left him to die. But she’s still … she’s _dead_ and it’s my fault. I should have just said yes. I should have just—” 

_"No,_ ” Klaus insists, tugging Five around to face him. Five stares up at him, looking so heartbreakingly _young._ “No, Five. You couldn’t have known he would do that. _He_ chose to kill her, _not_ you.” He grips Five’s shoulders, desperate for him to understand this. “Listen to me, okay? _None_ of this is your fault. He wasn’t giving you a choice at all, and even if you agreed, there’s no guarantee it would have kept her safe. Remember, he promised to keep me safe, too, and he already thought he’d killed me. He was a liar and monster and I’m….” Klaus swallows back his own tears and tips his head down, resting his forehead against Five’s. “I’m so glad you got out. I’m so glad you didn’t give in to him. You’re so strong, Five, and you did the best you could. I’m proud of you.” 

Five makes a desperate, keening noise in the back of his throat and tangles his hands in Klaus’s shirt. “I still failed her. And I … I don’t feel bad for killing any of them. I _enjoyed_ it. What does that make me?” 

“I think it makes you human,” Klaus says, pulling back to squeeze Five’s shoulders again. “They hurt you, _terribly_ , and they killed someone you loved. I’m not here to preach about whether or not that meant they deserved to die, but killing them for it? A human response, if there ever was one.” He leans down to press his lips fleetingly to Five’s hair. “As for Allison, you’re not the one that failed her. And I know you don’t believe me right now and I know it doesn’t make anything better, but it’s true.” 

He lets out a long sigh and shakes his head. “It’s something I’m trying to remind myself of, too. It’s an awful, fucked-up world, Five. We’re just doing the best that we can with the shitty hand we’ve been dealt.” 

“Yeah,” Five mumbles and leans in again, resting his forehead against Klaus’s chest. 

Klaus hugs him tight. There’s more, he knows—other things that Five isn’t telling him, but he figures this is enough for now. He’s just glad Five opened up to him at all. 

“I’ve got you, little brother,” he repeats for the hundredth time and he’ll say it a thousand more, whatever it takes to get Five to believe it. “I’m here.” 

“I know,” Five mutters into Klaus’s shirt. “Thank you.” 

“Anytime.” 

Five steps back, blinking red-rimmed eyes. 

“Do you want to get going?” Klaus asks. 

Five shakes his head and glances over his shoulder at the canyon. “Let’s stay here … just for a little longer.” 

“Okay,” Klaus agrees, joining Five at the railing and draping an arm over his shoulders. “We can do that.” 

_ _ 

It’s the middle of the night by the time they reach LA and the fuel indicator is hovering close to empty. Klaus stops the truck in the middle of the highway, staring down at lights in the valley below … and the towering walls of the QZ ringing what’s left of the city. 

“Are we sure we want to do this?” he asks nervously. “If we go in there, it’s not going to be easy to get back out. 

“Yeah,” Five says, drumming his fingers on the dash. “But Allison could be in there.” 

“True.” Klaus adjusts his grip on the steering wheel and steels himself. He hates the idea of QZs and he’s avoided them for seven years, but Allison is worth the price of getting locked in one. If she’s alive … he thinks his heart would break, in the good kind of way. Just rent right down the middle with joy and amazement and relief. 

(He already got Five back, in a way. Another one of his siblings feels like an undeserved miracle.)

“Alright,” he says and pushes down on the gas pedal. “Let’s do this.” 

They descend into the valley and the walls loom higher and higher and higher, until they’re the only thing Klaus can see. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're so inclined, feel free to follow me on tumblr @wobblyspelling!  
> I've also now created a playlist for this fic, which you can find [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2FnOEGCamMc5mw3XpSFMyw?si=73_qarkhQ-6J9G7NEgDRzQ)


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